


Names, and Other Unnecessary things

by Skarl_the_drummer



Series: The Abyss is in your Eyes [1]
Category: Death Note, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Religion & Lore - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: All the children are scary, Angels, Angst and Humor, Beings that exist outside of human comprehension, Beyond is a creeper, Beyond's jar of strawberry Jam, Character Death, Crossover, Dark, Demons, Dubious Morality, F/F, F/M, Flowers, Gray!Harry, Harry as Death, Harry is also a creeper, Harry is paranoid but he has good reasons, M/M, Magical Realism, Master of Death, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Multi-dimesional beings, Non-Human Harry, Pan-dimensional beings that span a finite sub-set of infinite realities, People are Assholes, Petunia's petunias, Polyamory, Senient plants, Shinigami, So kinda a MoD!Harry fic, Stable Time Loops, Time Travel, Torture, secret bases with arbitrarily assigned names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:29:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2497955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarl_the_drummer/pseuds/Skarl_the_drummer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry is an extraordinarily intelligent child who has an intense dislike for boredom, wizards were never meant to be Horcruxes, a certain god of death has an almost lecherous obsession with apples and everyone has their own agenda. AU events for both universes. </p><p>Imported from Fanfiction.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The power of names and fears

J was an unusual child. He was very much aware of this fact.

  
He was also aware that the individuals with whom he currently claimed residence were anything but. They were horribly and exceedingly normal. Which was terribly disappointing, seeing as it was their greatest and only aspiration. He supposed they were interesting enough physically speaking--after all it was quite an accomplishment to resemble a walrus, a horse, and a swine to such a startling degree--but their personalities were rather lacking. They were simply so terribly predictable and mundane.

  
They also seemed to be under the impression that his name was Harry. It wasn’t the most creative thing that he had been called, but it was somewhat annoying. As if he’d consent to being called Harry of all things.  
Mostly he didn’t really care what they thought his name was--they barely used it-- but it was the principle of the thing, and as far as he was concerned it was entirely too long. And boring. It wasn’t even that nice to look at when it was written out. The straight lines and square shape of the H threw off the entire balance of the word.

  
There was a wonderful time when he was a young child when he was convinced that he had no name, or need for anything to call himself at all. He doesn’t remember what made him think otherwise, but whatever it was he can’t help but think that he lost something that day.

  
He didn’t choose J for any other reason than the strange desire to call himself something, and the fact that he took particular joy from the way the letter curved. After all, he had found that giving a name too much meaning gave it an unnecessary amount of power.

  
The woman, who he mentally referred to as Horse (because calling them that was much more amusing than using their given names, which were also disgustingly normal) was a thin spindly woman with a long face and even longer neck. Her voice was unreasonably shrill, which he attributed to her ornery temperament, and her patience thin. For the most part she was the average housewife she aspired to be. He thought she put too much effort into it to justify such sub-par results.

 

She was afraid of him. She had always been afraid of him. It was a dark fear, always quivering beneath her facade of normalcy and disdain. Fear has always been something he understood. It was familiar to him, and thus in some perverse way, comforting. But he doesn't understand her fear. It is more than irrational. She was afraid of him long before his strangeness became apparent. Sometimes he catches her staring at him with what he thinks might be horrified fascination--or perhaps she was constipated. He was never really very good with the majority of other people’s emotions. Most of his knowledge of such matters is conjecture.

  
He thinks that perhaps it is not him that she is afraid of, for she really knows very little about him, and what he can do. He thinks that it the idea of him that she fears, an idea that was formed long before he graced her doorstep. Its amusing to him that she should fear some nebulous idea of him more than the blood and flesh version of himself. She doesn’t even see him. He might have hated her for that, if he were a different person.

  
He had determined some time ago (thanks to hints given to him in the form of several rather rude and derogatory remarks from Walrus) that it was Horse to whom he had the closest blood relation. This held little significance to him other than providing an explanation for how he had ended up in their rather grudging care, seeing as his relation to her had obviously done very little to endear him to her, thus ruling out adoption. They had referred to him as their no-good nephew a few times previously, but he was leery of putting any faith in anything they said. They were in the habit of lying when it came to matters concerning him, after all. But he was certain that it was Horse’s sister that he was related to. She was most likely his mother. Perhaps it was her sister that Horse fears, the shadow of a woman long-dead reflected back at her in his eyes.


	2. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has read or bookmarked or followed or commented so far! I love you all to bits :]

He learned of fear very early on in life.

He knew that other children feared at that age, but for them it was a fear of unknown things, of shadows and monsters that did not exist. They feared, but they did not understand.

Their ignorance shielded them from the true horror of fear. No, he feared and he was completely cognizant of it it. He understood his fear, and realized its power and his own powerlessness in front of it. He had already eaten the forbidden fruit when the other children were barely capable of comprehending their own pain or the fear that accompanied it.

He might have wept, if he had been able to.

There were many things that he feared, he found.

He was small, and physically weak. How easily he could be crushed, overpowered and rendered broken and bloody by those larger than him. The Walrus taught him this first fear.

With fear, came hate. It was mutual, he supposed. Both the hate and the fear. Like with Horse though, Walrus’ fear was hard to understand. It preceded his presence in their lives, and was rooted too deeply to be truly directed at him. But the anger was easily understood. It was a product of that curious fear, a desperate animal lashing out at imagined monsters in the shadows. J hated Walrus because he could understand him, and feared the pain and powerlessness that he could inflict upon him.

His second fear was taught to him by the Swine, who despite being older than him, was also but an ignorant child at the time. He had thought that he could form some sort of camaraderie with this other person, who was also comparatively small and thus vulnerable to the larger, more powerful creatures. Then, their interactions were but mere glances. Walrus and Horse had tried to keep them separate. He rarely saw the other child, and he knew that their rooms were even on completely different floors. He didn’t even know if the other child was even aware that he also lived there. He had thought, or perhaps hoped, in his silly young mind, that this was done as some sort of plot to divide their forces. Separate them and keep them weak, perhaps. So he had waited for a time when he might safely approach the other, whom had not yet been dubbed Swine. At that time, he was the Other, someone who might be like him.

Walrus was gone. Most likely at work, and Horse had stepped outside to tend the garden, the care of which he was not yet trusted with. He had been locked in the cupboard again for some imagined infraction. He had figured out how to open it rather quickly, considering that they had not yet invested in an actual padlock. The Other had been in front of the box Horse called the telly, watching with slightly glazed eyes as brightly colored forms danced across the screen. He had quietly opened the cupboard, glanced towards the back door to check that Horse was still occupied, and slowly approached the Other.

He was often like this, the Other was, eyes glazed and staring after being placed in front of it by Horse. It seemed like a horrible thing to be done to you, and at the time he had pitied the Other for it, and was glad that he had not been the one subjected to it. He had often thought about talking to Other, but now, with the older boy in front of him he is unsure how to proceed. He realized at that moment, that he had never actually had an actual conversation with someone before. That he could remember anyway. There was a disturbing blank in his mind during the time before Horse and Walrus and his dark little cupboard.

So he reaches out and taps the boy’s shoulder.


	3. Hope

The conversation had ended in disaster, for him anyway.

In retrospect he thinks that this should not have surprised him. Swine had never been a potential comrade. He had always been one of them. The evidence was there in his dark, beady little eyes, as they scrunched up in disgust at the sight of J in front of him. The boy’s voice was shrill, reminiscent of Horse’s, as he screeched vile names he probably barely understood and accusations of freak at J. It was strange, that such words from that boy, who he had never even had a proper conversation with would cause such painful feelings of betrayal within himself.

Horse heard the noise, and was obviously very displeased when she saw J out of his cupboard. Neither is Walrus when he returns and is informed of his indiscretion.

And so he learns that it is not because he is small and vulnerable that he is treated in such a way, because Swine has escaped the same fate. It is something inherent within himself that is found so terribly loathsome by these people. He understands, know, that he would never have their approval. Never be anything more than a loathsome creature to them.

And so, he reciprocates, and decides to relegate them to the same status in his own mind. He does not live with people. He has never lived with people. They are animals, living under the illusion of humanity. And as he lays in his dark, dark cupboard with spiders scurrying contentedly across his bruised and bloody face, he thinks about how much he still does not understand. He would very much like answers, mostly to the simple question ‘why?’.

Well, that and for his ankle to stop throbbing. He hopes that it is not broken.

He is two years old and he has just learned that hope is also to be feared.

Looking back he understands that these fears were necessary. They made him real, in relationship to himself and the world. He understood the dangers of caring--of creating more weaknesses to be exploited. Let the other children have friends. Let them bask in their delusions of safety. He would remain free of any ties, any weaknesses. He would survive.


	4. Dreams and Whispers

 

Sometimes he dreams of screaming and sickly colored lights. It seems like it should be important; that this dream that will not leave him alone should mean something to him. But he doesn’t understand it. He cannot remember anything like it, and he doesn’t understand why something inside him twists painfully every time he hears that scream. He thinks it might be sadness. He ignores it.

Sometimes he hears whispers. He can never quite make out what they say, but he knows that they are there, creating a persistent susurrus in the background. It does not bother him. He knows that he isn't mad. They are comforting, in a strange way, because he knows that they cannot hurt him. And sometimes, as he lies in the dusty darkness of his cupboard, surrounded with the smell of stale blood, he smiles, because he is never really alone. And he knows that he will not be broken by the solitude his captors have enforced upon him.

He is a quiet child. He has no one to talk to. He can’t remember ever leaving this house. He has memorized every scratch and blemish in the wood inside his cupboard. There are exactly twenty-six knots visible in the wood of the cupboard door. Sometimes he thinks that he should make the effort to mark this place as his, as small and pathetic as it is. But no, doing so would be admitting defeat. It would be an acceptance of what his jailors have decided will be his lot in life. So his cupboard remains unmarked, except for dry dark stains of his blood that all of the Horse’s frantic scrubbings have been unable to remove.  He watches her sometimes, just to see the frustration in her eyes, the tiniest bit of defeat.

By the time he is three they realize that he could be useful for unpaid labor. They don’t trust him with their food, yet, so is is thrown into the back garden (where the neighbors cannot see him) and is told to start weeding. It is the first time he can remember being outside. He does not recognize the majority of the plants, but since Horse has never been one for explanations he decides to try his best to rip out the plants that are not lined up in neat orderly rows. Horse had not given him any gloves, or water, so by the time he is done his hands are dirty and bloody and his vision is going black at the edges.

Horse comes outside, looks at him a moment, then sprays him down with the water hose. It is degrading, but what that they do to him isn’t? It cools down his burning skin and he gets to swallow a few mouthfuls of the precious water by the end of it. His oversized clothes hang heavily off his too-small frame, dripping steadily onto the concrete porch.

“You’d better not get the floors wet, boy.” Horse tsk’s and goes back inside.

J thinks that one day he might enjoy ripping out that tongue of hers, if it didn’t mean that he would have to touch her.


	5. Speaker

He is in the garden, the first time he hears the new voices. They are louder than his other companions, true voices instead of mere whispers.  He knows that he is not mad. He thinks that it would be nice to have someone to talk to. It’s been so long since he has last spoken, and even then it was only a few words. No one in his prison wants to hear his voice, after all.

Horse, who despite her somewhat unattractive appearance has still managed to have a streak of narcissism, has filled the garden with petunias.  J decides that he hates petunias, if only because Horse seems so obsessed with them. He doesn’t like any of her flowers, really. They seem fake to him. Too bright, too big. They are too perfect to be natural. They don’t have any scent, either. Reminds him of Horse, really.

And really, their flimsy trumpet-shaped flowers mock him, like little eyes staring out of the gaping maw of their too-colorful petals. He glares back at them defiantly. It almost physically pains him to have to tend them and ensure their continued existence. He would really like nothing better than to rend them root from leaf and leave their little plant-corpses strewn across the lawn like the defeated army of some sort  of plant Lord. But J is used to things that physically pain him, so he ignores the urge. He knows he probably wouldn’t be able to survive the punishment he would receive for such an act, in any event. A pity, that. He curses his body for being so small and weak and pathetically young.

It’s then, with dark thoughts of floricide occupying his mind that he hears the voices. They come from underneath the leaves of those hated plants. Creeping closer, he parts the leaves, and comes face to face with a pair of snakes. They were both pale gray, with black diamond patterns running down their backs. They appeared to be arguing.

 

 _“...and I told you, I did, I did, I told you thisss would happen..”_ The snake on the left was saying, while the one on the right was looking somewhere between annoyed and  chastised. Which confused J because he wasn’t aware that it was possible to have an expression like that, especially snakes who most certainly lacked the proper facial muscles to make any sort of expression at all.

 

_“Yessss, yesss you always know besssst don’t you? And what about that disssgusssting nessst of the nassssty fourlegged creaturesss? Who wasss the one who led us there, again? ‘twasss not I for certain.”_

 

That last  bit was said quite...snootily, for a snake. That being said, this was his first encounter with actual snakes, so he did not have very much information on what constituted ‘normal’ snake-like behavior, outside of the educational programming that he occasionally snuck out his cupboard to watch in the middle of the night. He was also quite certain that understanding what snakes said wasn’t something very common. He couldn’t imagine it being a well received skill, in any event, considering the unpopular reputation snakes had in general.

 

_“....ssstop jusssst ssstop. We are never going  to find it if you keep nattering on..”_

_“Me?! I’m the one who’sss nattering? You sssstupid excusssse for a…..”_

J was rather surprised that the creatures had not yet noticed him. His knowledge of reptiles was far from vast, but he had  been under the impression that wild animals were generally more aware of their surroundings.  Of course, he had also been under the impression that snakes did not have conversations, or argue, or insult one another. There were always new things to be learned.

The snakes continued with their mutual insults and J contemplated his ability to understand  their conversations. He was quite certain that snakes did not suddenly gain the ability to speak human language. Seeing as he was listening in on a conversation between two snakes, (which was probably rather rude of him, now that he thought about it ) he could comfortably assume that it was some quality within himself that allowed him to understand their speech. After all, he did have a track record of having strange and unusual things happening to him, so it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch of the imagination to  believe that he had done something strange again.

His strangeness was rather sporadic, which might be normal for his particular brand of strangeness, considering that it regularly defied the laws of physics. Despite never having left the grounds of the ‘house’ that he was imprisoned in, J had what he considered to be a passable knowledge of what was and was not considered ‘normal’. He was quite well read, for a child of his age and circumstance, in any event, and he had picked up on some of the common biases and cultural values in the books that he had read. This wasn’t all that much, and was mostly skewed considering that his sample set consisted entirely of the books that the Dursleys (for this was their surname, and he considered it repugnant enough to continue to refer to them with said name) owned and that J was able to ‘liberate’ during his nighttime forays throughout the house. The most easily accessible books were stored in Swine’s second bedroom, and were unread by Swine himself, utterly unsurprising considering that Swine could not read. The majority of them were picture books, which were useful when he had first begun to teach himself to read, but whose main subjects were insultingly pathetic drivel. There was also bookshelf in Walrus’s room, which he suspected was mostly for show considering that none of the books showed any sign of having been read. A large number of them appeared to be gifts, judging by the sticky notes in their front covers.

J was drawn from his introspection by increasingly violent hissing. The two snakes appeared to be engaged in some sort of wrestling, with the slightly larger snake, who had been on J’s left biting the tail of the smaller, second snake. The smaller snake was protesting the larger snake’s “ _barbaric and uncouth behavior”_ while appearing to attempt to strangle the life out of it. J decided that he might as well intervene, considering that he wouldn’t be able to receive any answers from dead snakes. (well, he could perform an autopsy and finally find out what the inside of a snake smelled like, but that wasn’t really important right at the moment) He was also genuinely curious about these creatures, and about whether or not his ability to understand their speech meant that he also had the ability to be understood by them. It was worth a try.

 _“Excuse me?”_ He asked, tentatively. This did, finally get the two snakes’ attention.

_“Oh NOW look what you’ve done. Gone and gotten the attention of one of the sssstupid monkey creaturessss.”_

They did not appear to have understood him.

_“What I’ve done? I am not the one who insisted on having a juvenile wrestling match…”_

 

J decided he might as well try again. He concentrated very carefully on the sibilant sound of the snakes speech before speaking again

 

_“It’sss very rude, you know, to call me a monkey, when I am quite certain that I am nothing of the sssort.”_

 

_“Ah! The mud monkey! It speaks!”_

 

The larger snake began to slither in a rather distressed circle. J had the impression that the smaller snake’s eye would be twitching, if it had the necessary facial muscles.

 

 _“Obviously. The question is how.”_ Here the smaller snake looked at J, who was somehow able to interpret the motionless reptilian expression as being vaguely suspicious.

 

 _“That is exactly what I would like to know.”_  He replied, cooly.

 

 _“Maybe the mud-monkey is really a ssssnake! Trapped in a mud-monkey body! We must ssssave him! He issss one of our brethren, who sssspeaksss our noble tongue---”_ It was cut off by the smaller snake who had wrapped itself around around its throat once more.

 

_“Ceasssse your mindless drivel, you cretin. He isss not  a sssnake. It doesss not work that way.”_

 

“ _What doesssn’t work that---”_ The snake tightened its hold, and J cleared his throat as politely as possible. He hoped that the strange translation phenomenon managed to get the meaning of the gesture across.

 

The smaller snake turned its attention back to J.

 

 _“What are you two-legger?”_ It demanded, with an almost confused tilt of its head.

 

 _“Well,”_ He replied, _“I have been operating under the assssumption that I am human.”_

_“No, I know of thessse humans, asss well asss the onesss with the ssstrange power. They have their Speakersss. You are not one of them. You are something elssse entirely.”_

  



	6. Humanity

He believes the snake when it tells him that he is something other than human. He has no real reason, after all, to be particularly attached to his humanity, not with his experiences with other members of the species. He supposes he should question this revelation, coming from a snake of all creatures, but some part of him knows that it is not lying. It wouldn’t, not to him. So for now, he accepts the creature’s words; his humanity or lack thereof has never really been of great importance to him. He has always known that he is different, after all.

But he is curious about these other humans, the ones with  the ‘strange powers’. So he asks the snake about them.

 

 _“Annoying and arrogant creaturessss, they are,”_ The snake hisses with palpable disdain. _“Always waving around their little ssticksss and making the other humansss forget thingsss. They have a particular prejudice againssst my noble race.”_ Here J has the distinct impression that the snake would be scrunching up its nose in disgust. It adopts a slightly thoughtful pose then continues. _“They are alwaysss killing each other for ssstupid reassons. Much like the other humansss do. ”_

The larger snake nods in agreement with its companion’s words.

J takes a moment to consider the fact that a snake just nodded, which was a distinctly human gesture. He wonders if his strangeness is affecting the creatures even now, barely minutes after being in his presence. He’s never really been in the presence of any animals long enough to see if his presence affected them in any discernable way. And even if he had, it was not as if he could’ve talked to them. He is strangely certain that, for now at least, this peculiar talent of his is restricted to snakes. He’s been strangely certain of quite a number of things lately, now that he thinks about it. He briefly wonders if that should worry him. Then he turns his attention back to the snake’s words.

If it is to be believed then there are humans running amok out there with powers. The sticks the snake mentioned sound suspiciously like wands, which while somewhat laughable at first becomes concerning when he considers that he has been talking to a snake and that these humans are apparently capable of erasing people’s memories. That last part frightens him the most. He knows that his mind is a blank before a certain age. There are no vague feelings or images or emotions tied to anything before he woke up one day with the Dursleys. It’s not natural, not for him, a child who has been literally unable to forget anything. He remembers every word he has read, every insult ever hurled at him, every cut and bruise inflicted upon him, and every fearful glance that Horse thinks that he doesn’t notice. So to have forgotten something so very thoroughly absolutely reeks of tampering. And here this creature tells him of beings capable of such a thing. Which implies that at some point he has had some sort of contact with them, and that they did something to him. Perhaps they were the ones to leave him with his captors? Or at the very least the reason for him being left with them.

He knows that his parents are dead. He is uncertain of how exactly they died. He knows that Horse’s claim of a car crash are false, as are Walrus’ claims of drunkenness. Their vindictive glee at telling J,who they undoubtedly believed to be a child as emotionally vulnerable as he was physically vulnerable, such falsehoods was not faked. (It was amazing that he could evoke such emotions in others simply by existing. He decides that they do not deserve the emotional investment required for him to truly hate them. So he settles for disgust and disdain. Even though he is aware that emotions do not possess any gustatory qualities, it still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.)

Perhaps it was these humans who had killed his parents. The only question was why they had left him alive. Perhaps his parents had broken some great law of their people, and now he was being punished for their sins. He had read about such things, sins of the father visited upon the sons. It was something that belonged in a much more archaic society, but plausible considering that they were a subspecies of humans capable of utilizing some sort of energy using sticks. (He refused to think of them as wands.) But this was all of course mere conjecture at this point. He did not really have enough information to come up with anything solid.

And all these thoughts take less than a minute in their frantic rush across his mind, as he gazes back into the slitted eyes of the smaller of the two snakes.

 

 _“So are they dangerousss, thesse humansss with ssticksss?”_ He asks the snake.

The snake ponders this, as if finally questioning why exactly  it feels so amenable to answering this strange child’s questions. Then it nods to itself. (Another strangely human gesture).

_“No more ssso than any other human when given a weapon of great power. They would like to think that they are ssso much greater than those without their power. But they are mortal, jussst as all humansss are. Sssome are jussst as cunning as they are inssidiouss, and sshould be dealt with accordingly. Othersss are foolisssh but mosstly harmless creaturesss. A few believe themssselvess to be godsss. One sssuch being wreaked great havoc upon their world not too many wintersss ago, according to the rumoursss among my kind. He wasss ssupossedly one of their Speakersss.”_

 

 _“He wasss,”_ Interjects the larger snake, _“The Lady sssaid ssso. Lasst of hisss line.”_

 

 _“Ah,”_ replies J. The smaller snake is beginning to look impatient. He decides not to push his luck, what little of it there is.“ _So what was it that you were looking for? It sounded important.”_

 

 _“It is.”_ Replies the smaller snake.

 

 _“Yesss, it is, it is,_ ” Continues the larger snake. _“Very important. Sssomebody lossst it and now we have to find it.”_ In a less enthusiastic tone, it adds _“But we can’t be telling you what it is. Nope. Lawsss you ssee. Becaussse we’re snakesss. And you aren’t?”_ This last bit is said as the snake sends a questioning look at its smaller companion.

 

 _“Yesss. He isss mosst definitely not a sssnake.”_ It confirms.

 

 _“Sssoo? What doesss that make him? Tell me tell me tellmetellme!”_ The larger snake demands. J finds that it is, in fact, possible for a snake to look demented.

 

_“I do not know. I have already indicated sssuch, you cretin. I am a sssnake, not an encyclopedia. I have never encountered sssomething like him before.”_

 

J wonders how a snake knows what an encyclopedia is. He decides not to question it, for now.

 

 _“But he is certainly interesssting,_ ” The small snake continued. _“Perhapss we may visssit again once we have found what we ssseek.”_

 

This seemed to make the larger snake happy. He thinks it makes him happy as well, because there’s a little ball of warmth growing inside him at the thought of being able to talk to these creatures again.

 

_“I would like that.”_


	7. Flowers for Horse

J had never been so arrogant as to believe that he was the only one with strange powers. Arrogance left one vulnerable, and that was something that he could not afford. He knew that he was easy prey, both his body and his powers were still too undeveloped to fend off attacks from beings older than him. The development of his mental faculties far oustripped the growth of his power or body. It was both a blessing and a curse that he was able to comprehend the consequences of this weakness.

With the revelation that he had been placed with the Dursleys by beings who had powers similar to his, his helplessness was driven home. He was certain that if They had gone so far as to wipe his memory before placing him with the Dursleys they would have ways to ensure that he stayed there. They had gone through the effort into keeping him alive, for some reason. He didn’t really have any experience to base his deductions on, which made things difficult.  The majority of his knowledge of such situations mainly stemmed from the news, action movies and science fiction adventure novels that had somehow made their way into the Dursley’s care. The holes in the information provided were mostly filled by logic. He knew that as weak as he was presently, he had very little chance at successfully escaping and evading his captors for any significant length of time.

Any escape attempts on his part would be futile at this time, and only lead to heightened security which would in turn make any future attempts at escape more difficult. He needed to be able to at least defend himself before he attempted escape, especially if he was going to have to possibly fight against more than one person with as of yet undetermined powers. He did not particularly like having to stay there, but for all of their hatred and mistreatment of him, Horse and Walrus would never outright kill him. It wasn’t because there was some small part inside of them that recognized that he was an individual whose life was sacred in any way. It was because they enjoyed having a sentient being held prisoner, vulnerable and helpless against their violence and assertions of superiority. In short, they enjoyed the power trip that came from having him at their mercy. Killing him would deprive them of that, and sully their hands in a way that they probably didn’t think was justified.

It might have made him hate them, if he hadn’t found it so amusing. He knew that he was weak, now. He was a child, and like all children he was subject to the whims of his elders, regardless of his intelligence. But something that he knew, and that Horse and Walrus had evidently forgotten, was that children grow up. Some quicker than others. They do not remain helpless forever, nor do they remain cowed. And J was a child who had a perfect memory that would follow him into adulthood. He knew that one day it would be him who held them helpless and vulnerable and utterly at his mercy. He does not think he will be inclined to grant them his forgiveness. For just as they are unworthy of his hate,  they are thrice as unworthy of his forgiveness.

But for now he will bide his time, until he has the power to seize his freedom.

 

Sometimes the snakes return, and talk with him while he works in Horse’s garden.  He listens to their tales of the world outside his prison as he coaxes out the growing power inside of himself. They tell him of the great noisy and disgusting city they visited in their search for their object. The larger snake informs him that it was nearly run over by one of the humans’ great metal monstrosities. The smaller snake informs its companion that the correct term is motor vehicle, and requests that it at least try not to sound like an ignorant wretch.

 

J wonders how it learned that term, as he slowly drips a tiny portion of his energy into Horse’s petunias. He’s trying to make them sentient. He’s learned that he can do a great many things with this energy of his, as long as he knows exactly what he wants,and has the sufficient will for it to be so . It thrums beneath his skin,his power, sometimes like liquid sunlight, strong and bright. Sometimes it’s like he imagines clouds would feel, cold and wet and roiling with energy just waiting to become a proper storm. It is vast, this energy of his, but his body is still a weak vessel for its power, and he dare not use more than a mere trickle of its might lest it consume him whole. One day, he vows, he shall master it in its entirety.

Today it feels like sunlight, and he almost smiles as he feels it comply with his wishes. He can feel the twenty or so consciousnesses slowly come into being within the flowers that Horse loves so dearly. They’re weak, still, not awake enough for proper thoughts, but assuredly there. And they are his. He sends out tendrils of his power to each of the budding sparks and feeds them his disgust and disdain for the woman he calls Horse. They drink it in with a mindless thirst and he feels their consciousnesses shine with a darker light. He gives them the shades of memories of dashed hopes and cruel words. Their minds are like jagged blades. He gives them memories of scars and pain and hunger. They dig their roots deeper into the moist black dirt, and their petals seem somehow sharper. He pulls back the tendrils, sits on his haunches and looks on at them with something akin to pride.

 

The snakes never tell him their names, and he never asks. He isn’t actually sure they have names, in any case. He could understand that.

He waits a month between the first and second meetings. It takes them that long to finish their assignment. They still won’t tell him what it is they had been looking for, or who the Lady is. But they tell him stories of other things, and do not pry into his business, overmuch, and he is content with it.

Although, for all of the smaller snake’s intelligence, it is still a snake and cannot understand why he does not simply leave his prison. He doesn’t try to explain.

The larger snake simply accepts his actions, while bemoaning the fact that he isn’t a member of their noble race, because then he would surely be venomous and could solve all his problems by biting them. He simply nods and humours the rather passionate creature.

Sometimes he discusses the humans who wield powers and sticks with the snakes, but they can tell him little more than they already have because snakes in general care very little for humans and their matters. The larger snake generally takes the time at this part of their conversation to remind J that he isn’t human. J just concedes to that with a hum and resumes whispering to his petunias.

He’s disappointed that he could not learn more about his enemies from the snakes he thinks might possibly be his friends. But they are snakes, and he supposes he should not expect too terribly much of them, especially when they are already being so nice to him without any particular reason.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The smaller snake had been somewhat irked by its inability to provide much information on the stick-wielders to J. It has never really seen the need to concern itself with  the problems of their world. Now, though, that this small being in front of it, barely a hatchling really, seemed so disappointed by the lack of information, it feels… It doesn’t really know how it feels. Snakes aren’t great at feelings. But it knows that it doesn’t like not being able to provide information to this strange hatchling. That’s its purpose; information gathering. Just as its companion’s purpose is to provide violent force. Not being able to fulfill its purpose to the fullest, even if it isn’t for his Lady, bothers him greatly. So in between their visits with the hatchling, the snakes set out to rectify their present lack of intelligence concerning the stick-wielders.


	8. Revelations

It wasn’t terribly difficult for the snakes to find the stick wielders. Their power had a certain taste to it, like static electricity as compared to their hatchling’s storm. They follow the little streams of energy that the stick-wielders constantly leave in their wake. They didn’t seem to really understand their power very well at all, letting it drift off all over the place like that. Quite sloppy, really. But it made the snakes’ objective easier, so they would not complain.

While it wasn’t terribly difficult, per se, it was rather tedious. The trails twisted and turned and meandered and sometimes ended abruptly, probably from when they did the popping jumping from place to place thing that they were so terribly fond of. The snakes think it is annoying, and terribly inconsiderate of the humans to leave them hanging in such a way.  They follow the trails through the disgusting gray streets of the stone city the humans referred to as ‘London’, until they find a street that smelled strongly of books and static. A large number of the trails converged there, at some sort of human dining establishment. It was hidden by a veil of the stick-wielder’s static power, but otherwise rather obvious. It relied heavily on the concealment provided by the veil, which really only worked on other humans. The majority of humans were half-blind to begin with, so the snakes didn’t really think much of the stick-wielders attempts at hiding themselves. They were such amateurs, really.

And so the two snakes managed to find themselves inside a rather dingy building with a sign proclaiming it to be The Leaky Cauldron. (The smaller snake had taken it upon itself to learn the basics a few of the human languages, and therefore had a rather rudimentary knowledge of written modern english.) They follow the flow of static trails to a slab of energy which desperately tries to convince them that no, it isn’t a formless mass of energy, it is really a rather solid brick wall which requires a certain password to open. The snakes point out that it is actually rather obvious that it is not, in fact, a brick wall, but reassure it with promises that they won’t tell anyone. It is a rather despondent ‘brick wall’ that grants them passage. The smaller snake thinks it might be having what humans call an “identity crisis”.

They slither within the shadows, out of view of the stick-wielders who they have found hold a rather unflattering view of their noble race. (Simply more proof that they are filthy heathens. Imagine. Not liking snakes.)

It is called Diagon alley, and the stick-wielders swarm in unholy concentrations within its confines. The snakes’ senses are almost overwhelmed by the thrumming mass of energy surrounding every building and human. The stench of human sweat was not very helpful either. They think they might hate this place, but the large crowds are vital to the process of gathering information, and so they wait, and they listen. The larger snake was visibly shaking from the effort required to restrain itself from biting any humans. Its mouth was practically dripping venom.

 

The smaller snake guides its companion to one of the human book stores. While the larger snake could not read any human language, the relatively deserted shop would provide a welcome respite from the seething crowd of humanity. The smaller snake slithers around the shop as discretely as possible, while its companion curls up in a dark corner and tries to stop dripping venom. The smaller snake drifts through the section which appears devoted to history. Many of the books there seem devoted to something called the Goblin wars. It knows of the Goblins, and considers them worthy warriors. They also had fangs, which was always a good sign of character as far as snakes were concerned.

A section of the History aisle also seems devoted to notable stick-wielding humans, most of whom the snake has never heard of, or simply does not care about. There are several books by some strange human named Lockhart who seems to sparkle more than is strictly healthy. But they are snakes, and are by no means experts on human health or physiology, so it could be perfectly normal. There is an entire shelf of books dedicated to someone called The-Boy-Who-Lived. The snake doesn’t really understand why living would be considered such a monumental accomplishment as to warrant an entire shelf of books dedicated to the child, but decides that it would be useful to have information on someone that the stick-wielders hold in such high esteem.

Upon opening the first book (of course it was capable of opening books. It’s a Snake. It would be a dishonor to its noble race if it couldn’t) the smaller snake is greeted with a moving image. The stick-wielders are inordinately fond of the ghastly things. It tilts it’s head to one side curiously at it regards the image.The dark haired child seems terribly familiar for some reason. The child in the image opens its eyes, and if the snake had vocal chords capable of it, it would have gasped. With a growing sense of dread, it turns the page and continues to read.

 

Twenty seven books later, the snake and its companion leave the crowded stick-wielder shopping district. They have a report to make.

* * *

 

 

J has decided that tending the garden is by far his most tolerable chore. He would venture to call it ‘fun’ even, were it not something assigned to him by Horse. He refuses to refer to anything she assigns to him by any obviously positive adjective, simply out of principle.

Mostly though, he finds the time useful for his training, and preparation for his future vengeance. He takes particular joy in exercising his powers, even though he knows in that strange way of his that he is nowhere near powerful enough to execute an effective escape. Yet. But he has little else to do other than think and plan and train. He has no one to talk to, other than the snakes, and their visits are few and far between. He knows that Horse assigns him chores beyond the capabilities of normal three year old children with the hopes of breaking him, and making him too weary to get up to any of his ‘funny business’. (Their insistence on using euphemisms to refer to his powers amuses him greatly.)

But J had found that as his mastery of his powers grew, his need for sleep diminished greatly. He simply did not feel tired, anymore. There was no weariness tugging at the edges of his consciousness at night, nor did his body seem affected by the manual labor he was forced to perform. He calculates that on average, he sleeps three hours a week, and even then it is barely a light doze. His body seems unaffected by his lack of sleep, and is as healthy as he can reasonably expect it to be, in his situation.  He is by no means strong, but his body seems somewhat more resilient to strain. This does not, however, prevent Walrus’s gratuitous beatings from being any less painful. It just means that the comforting darkness of sleep that has previously claimed him afterwards was much longer in coming.

And so he lays in his cupboard, nursing his bleeding wounds, and considers the fates of the creatures he lives with. The whispers grow louder.

 

He is always healed by the dawning of the next morning, the only outward evidence of his pain the dark stains on the inside of his cupboard, and the sound of Horse’s almost desperate scrubbing. But inside his mind, an even darker stain grows. And it festers.

* * *

 

 

Each day in the garden, he plays little games, because for all his cold calculation and intelligence, he is still a child. He’s never played games with anyone else though, that he can remember, anyway, so he comes up with them himself. He has no possessions that he can truly call his own; no puzzles or toys or picture books. So he plays with his power,the only thing that’s really and truly his, in a purely whimsical way. He likes to move things, small rocks and leaves,bend them to his will and make them dance in the air like some invisible specter has decided it would be amusing to do so. He enjoys making things dance, it’s a pleasant change from being the one tossed around.

Sometimes, he reaches out and summons all the little lives that he can feel. They are little sparks, not as strong or bright as his petunias, in his mind’s eye, but there. His power connects to them for just a brief moment, hundreds of tiny tendrils touching hundreds of tiny lights, but it is enough. His tendrils give a little pull, and then all the little creatures are his to command, for a time. He cannot yet control anything with a mind more complicated than an insect’s, but for now it is enough, and he draws them forward and has them enact great battles and tragic defeats, great feats of strategy and classic blunders. And at the end his little  game, their shattered corpses lay across the miniature battlefield, wing segments partially detached and fluttering silently in the gentle breeze like some sort of morbid standard. J folds their tiny bodies into the dark loam at the base of his petunias’ roots. He can almost feel the flowers  purr at the edges of his mind.

 

It is there, as he buries the remnants of yet another glorious battle of tiny soldiers in chitinous armor, that the snakes find him. He is pleasantly surprised, at first, when the smaller snake tells him that it has more information about the stick-wielders for him. It first tells him the little things, the basics of what the stick-wielders are and what they think they are.

 _“They call themselvesss wizardsss,”_ it begins, _“and their sticksss, wandsss.”_

 

J almost winces, at that horrible confirmation.

It proceeds to tell him of how the snakes found a place called ‘The leaky Cauldron’,  ‘Diagon Alley”,  and a wall that wasn’t quite what it seemed. The larger snake interjects, here, with complaints about the overwhelming stench of stick-wielders, and their disgusting propensity to crowd. The larger snake doesn’t even snap at its companion.

 

“ _Do you remember,”_ asks the smaller snake, _“the ssstick-wielding Speaker I told you about, who  fancied himself a god?”_

_“Of course. You said he ‘wreaked great havoc upon their world’.”_

 

_“Yesss. Apparently he brought them War, which they were ill-equipped for. Many of their kind perissshed, and they dessspaired. But the Speaker was vanquissshed, two human years ago.”_

 

J began to have a horrible suspicion that this had something to do with him, or at least his suspicious memory blank.

 

_“The Speaker, whose name the stick-wielders refuse even to print, was defeated by a young child, after the Speaker had killed both of the boy’s parents, who were active members of an Order which opposed him, with some sort of ‘spell’ called the Killing curse. He apparently attempted to use the same curse on the child, but it backfired, rendering him to mere ashes. The stick-wielders proclaimed the child as the Boy-who-lived, and hailed him as their hero. A great number of books have been written about his supposed exploits in the time since then. The majority of them seem to be mere speculation and blatant fantasy. The stick-wielders are under the impression that the child was placed in a safe, secure location, where he would grow up in comfort.”_

 

The snake looked away, for a moment, before saying, _“I believe you to be that child. Your resemblance to the images are unmistakable, and you bear the mark on your forehead from the killing curse.”_

 

J could not deny that deep down he knew that all of this was true. He felt a brief spasm of resentment for that part of him, because there was nothing he wanted more than to be able to deny what he had just heard, if only the briefest of moments. But he couldn’t, so he considered the ramifications of the report that the snake had just given him. His parents weren’t criminals. They had not violated any obscure taboo, or broken any of their people’s laws. They had died as soldiers, as heroes, giving their lives in the battle against a worthy foe. They were people to be respected, to be honored and revered. His entire perception of who they had been was overturned. The whispers grow agitated.

And he himself, had been instrumental in the fall of the man who had murdered not only his own parents, but countless others as well. He could hardly even recall anything of that night, but he realizes now that that night was the subject of his dreams. The screaming that he had tried so desperately to ignore had been his mother. But none of that explained what he was doing in his prison. He wasn’t being punished for any familial sins. The majority of the wand-wielders were not even aware of his suffering. They thought he was somewhere safe probably being pampered like the hero they revered him as. But whoever had placed him there must have surely been aware of how he would have been treated. He was important to their world, and regardless of any blood relation he had to the creatures the stick-wielders would have surely investigated any home before placing him there. Which meant placing him with people who were certain to abuse him served some other purpose than punishing his parents’ bloodline. But who would have the authority to place him here? He narrows his eyes as thought occurs to him.

He returns his attention to the smaller snake, who was watching him cautiously.

 

_“This Order, that you mentioned my parents being a part of--who was the leader of it?”_

_“An old, powerful human with a name that is far too long; Albus Dumbledore. He is the headmaster of their school, as well head of one of their governing bodies. He is highly regarded, and seen as the leader of the Light-aligned faction of their society. The Speaker was the leader of the Dark-aligned faction. Whether or not Dumbledore is the ‘magical guardian’ of the Boy-who-lived is the matter of much speculation. But there are very few other candidates for your guardianship, only two actually, and one of them is currently in their prison for supposedly betraying the location of your parents’ safe house to the Speaker. No one knows where the other one is, but it is speculated that he was declared unfit to assume your guardianship for some reason or another.”_

 

This Dumbledore character must have been the one to place J here. It made sense, considering that J would have a large degree of  influence in the stick-wielders society when he was older. He is perhaps seen as an even stronger symbol of the ‘Light’-faction than Dumbledore. He was a possible threat to Dumbledore’s power. By keeping J in an abusive environment, Dumbledore was attempting to create an ignorant, easily moldable pawn. He probably hadn’t factored in that J would turn out the way he had. It gave J a certain pleasure to know that he was creating a mess of the man’s plans. He would not be a pawn, to be subject to the whim of another, and sacrificed as they saw fit. He would have to be careful, though. The man was powerful, and had probably had some sort of surveillance on J since the day that he had been placed there. He was certain that no one was aware of his displays of power, so whatever type of surveillance it was it wasn’t intended to monitor his every movement, only ensure his continued presence with the Dursleys.

Which meant that they had done something with their power to watch him, or had assigned a person to watch the house to ensure that he did not escape. Neither was a pleasant prospect.

 _“Are there any of the stick-wieldersss living near here?”_ He asks the snakes.

 

 _“No, but there isss one that carriesss the smell of their kind, but not the power. She livess in the nesst of disssgusting four-legged creaturesss called ‘catsss’. We had barely essscaped the vile creaturess when we first met you. It iss but a few housesss that way.”_ It indicates a direction down the street with an inclination of its head.

 

That must be his watcher, then. Once he has determined whether or not he is under any other type of surveillance, figuring out how to evade his watcher should not be too terribly hard.

He looks at the snake, then smiles.

 

_“Thank you.”_

 

It’s the most sincere thing that he can ever remember saying.


	9. Evasive action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things you can't come back from.

J would have liked to think that he would never have to have anything to do with the stick-wielders, or Wizards and Witches as they apparently called themselves. But while he knew that one day he would be powerful, he wasn’t yet. He was young, and as he was constantly reminded, vulnerable. There were many, many of the stick-wielders. And he was important to them. Not as a person, or a child. No, they had elevated him to the point that he was barely even human to them anymore. As far as they were concerned, he could be a doll made of glass and gold. After all, an idol need not be flesh to be worshiped. And these people thought they knew him, thought that they understood the child that they worshiped. All the fanciful tales they invented with him as the protagonist, were not so much tales for children as brands of ownership, marking him as their own. With every word written with the presumption of knowledge they might as well have branded a collective mark of ownership on his back. He could almost feel the heat of the metaphorical iron, singeing the sparse hairs on his neck. It was a terrifying thought. He knew enough of fame to know that no matter the culture the public was always fickle, needy and cruel. They could vilify and persecute in an instant the individual that they had been previously worshiping as the incarnation of heavenly perfection. If he tried to run, they would eventually search for him. He might be able to avoid this ‘Dumbledore’ character, for a while, but as soon as he turned eleven he would have the collective might of the stick-wielder’s world searching for him. He doesn’t know if he would be powerful enough to prevent them from finding him, by then.

The snakes had told him of this school, that Dumbledore was the Headmaster of. It was apparently the only one of its kind in the United Kingdom, and attendance was mandatory for all children who had the energy called ‘magic’. Seven years of compulsory education at a boarding school run by the man that he sees as his enemy. It will be dangerous, being vulnerable so deep inside that man’s home territory. And he can’t refuse.  He knows that he isn’t a wizard. But they don’t. He has powers very similar to theirs, and he could most likely pass himself off as one of them, based on what the snakes have told him. But it would still be dangerous, either way. They would most likely classify him as some sort of magical creature, if they ever discovered that he was not a wizard, and that is not something that he is exactly keen on happening. Their governing body didn’t exactly hold creatures in very high esteem, and being considered one would most likely restrict his movements. Or end up with him being experimented upon in a lab of some sort. The snake did say that it had never encountered something like him before, meaning he was either very rare, or an entirely new type of being. And J had very, very little faith in the morals of wizards. Or any humans, for that matter. They were dangerous creatures.

But if he managed to escape the Dursleys, and his watchers,within the next few years  he would most probably be able to avoid Dumbledore until he was eleven, giving him a good six or seven years of relatively free living until he would have to enter the stick-wielder’s school. And as long as he managed to procure a guardian within that timeframe, he would have a significant enough paper trail to prevent Dumbledore from placing him back with the Dursleys. Bureaucracy was a pain, but it was useful in leaving evidence, and people noticed things like little boys inexplicably being placed with someone who wasn’t his legal guardian when there was enough paperwork saying it should be otherwise. Wizards did not seem to be the type of people to think about getting rid of physical evidence when they could simply muck about with people’s minds. At least, that’s what he was counting on.

He was also counting on Dumbledore being the type of man who would not tell the rest of the stick-wielders in the event that he ‘lost’ the Boy-who-lived. He had never actually met the man, and he really had very little experience with people in general, being locked in a small part of a single house for most of his remembered life, but he could  judge the man from his actions as reported to him by the snakes. And as far as he could tell, Albus Dumbledore was a powerful man. He had been a powerful man for a long time. Powerful men like him did not like admitting to their mistakes, especially if they are convinced that they can rectify it before anyone else notices said mistake. Dumbledore would most likely keep J’s future disappearance to himself, and spend the years searching for J himself. As long as J found a decent bolt hole early on, he should be fine.

As far as he could tell, J did not exist in the non-wizarding world. Legally, that is. He was born in the stick-wielder’s world to parents married in the stick-wielder’s world. His father was apparently something called a pureblood (which sounded rather pretentious to him,  but he supposed it couldn’t be helped) and more likely than not also did not exist outside of his own world. His mother, on the other hand, had been born to humans outside of the stick-wielder’s culture. (he was still uncomfortable calling them wizards) Which meant she had a birth certificate and a paper trail up until she was eleven, when she began attending the boarding school run by Dumbledore (which was evidently called Hogwarts. J did not really know how to react to that. Neither did the snakes.) Her legal existence meant that finding a guardian in the non-wizarding world was a much easier. He did not particularly trust any stick-wielders to become his guardian without having any ulterior motives. At least normal humans wouldn’t know who he was, and would be less likely to see him as the means to a particular end. That is, as long as he managed to avoid the more unsavory sort. He shuddered a bit, at the dark places that thought took him.

He can almost hear the whispers echoing his disgust. Sometimes he almost forgets that they are there.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s been a few months since the first report given to him by the snakes. He thinks they might be friends now, and he really isn’t sure what to think of that, so he doesn’t.

He plays with his powers, when the snakes aren’t there and he knows no one is looking. He has gotten better; more advanced, he supposes. He can control small mammals now, like mice and voles and other common little creatures. His armies, though, still consist of insects whose corpses he adds to the bases of his petunias after every battle. He can’t find it within himself to harm the little mammals, so he brings them close and lets them run across his hands and clothes, petting their soft pelts and admiring their tiny little feet. There is something infinitely fascinating to him about the delicate bone structure of their tiny paws.  He refuses to admit that he has a weakness for small furry creatures, so sometimes when the snakes visit he calls some of of the little creatures close enough for the snakes to eat. He knows it’s natural, and really it’s the only way he knows how to repay the snakes, but he can’t help but wince, just a little, each time. To make it up to the mice he directs them to the Dursleys pantry. He knows that he’ll get punished for it, but he really does feel bad about feeding their siblings to the snakes, even if he isn’t quite sure why.

Walrus does punish him, but it is no more painful than the other punishments that he has received for whatever Walrus has decided he is to blame for on any certain day. Sometimes, he doesn’t really think it matters whether or not he does anything to the Dursleys, because either way they will find something to blame on him. But he doesn’t do anything to them, not yet, because he still does not know how much his watcher can see.

He seeks to rectify that hole in his intelligence, tonight. Just like after every other punishment inflicted upon him by the creature called Walrus, J is locked in his cupboard. He take stock of his injuries. The bones in his wrist are sore, most likely bruised, possibly broken. At his current rate of healing, it should be mostly healed by the morning. His ribs are also sore, but not broken. His back hurts as well, and from the wetness he can feel, it’s bleeding. The blood drips onto the wooden floor, and he smirks to himself. Just another stain for Horse to obsess over. He knows how it bothers her, and his powers have progressed to the point that the pain no longer bothers him. Just a few months ago, it was if he was becoming numb to the pain, where it was merely a dull sort of pressure weighing on his senses like wet cotton. But now, he can feel the sting, the bite of his wounds and he revels in it because he knows that he has mastery over it. Where it was used against him, it is now his weapon. He drinks it in, and with it feeds the part of his power that roils like the black heart of a storm. The whispers nearly sing with delight.

There is little for him to do, as he waits in his cupboard for his wounds to heal. He barely sleeps, so on any other night he would have let himself out of the locked cupboard with his power and explored the dark, quiet house. Sometimes he even takes some food from the fridge; it’s not like they’d ever notice, what with the Swine and the Walrus eating as much as they do. (he’s still amazed at how incredibly porcine Swine managed to become at such a young age. If he didn’t know better he would suspect crossbreeding.) But their food never really sates his hunger, no matter how much of it he eats, and his body maintains its sickly, malnourished appearance. He still eats it though, because he knows that while not optimal it sustains his body.

Venturing outside his cupboard while his wounds are still dripping blood would leave inconvenient stains marking  his passage. Highly bothersome, really, considering Horse’s likely reaction to it. So he lays in his cupboard listening to the scurrying spiders as they spin silk cloth under his direction. It’s an almost soothing sound, and he finds his mind calming as he allows himself just to close his eyes and listen.

He evens his breathing, concentrating on the scurrying of spiders and the gentle whooshing of the air as it exits his lungs. He likes this centered feeling, this calmness. He allows himself to relax even more, his limbs completely limp, and his face completely peaceful. He allows his mind to fall into his power, abandoning the imperfect conduit of his body in order to completely immerse himself in the shifting mass of energy.

 

 


	10. Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> J’s power is a frightening thing. Sometimes, even for him.

He is almost four, when he first begins to see the numbers. It starts out as pain, different from the ache that constantly permeates his malnourished body. It’s sharper, like shards of broken glass scraping at the insides of his mind, and his powers do not shield him from it. The pain dances across his eyes like the piercing glass claws of some mad beast. He can almost see the creature as it claws apart his mind with vast swathes of liquid pain. The darkness of his cupboard flickers in time with the scraping shards, and he would scream if he thought it would make the pain stop. Screaming never does, though.

The taste of iron fills his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue. He can’t feel it, can’t feel anything at all past the agonizing pain thrumming just behind his eyes. He’s sorely tempted to rip those traitorous spheres out of their sockets, and squash them for their complicity in his torture. But he knows that that is an illogical thought, fueled by the harsh, unyielding pain.

He clenches his fingers tightly into the thin, worn fabric of his blanket. His knuckles must be white, he’s gripping so hard. The fabric rips easily beneath the pain fueled spasming clenches of his fingers.

The whispers are so loud now, almost shouting out harsh wordless sounds. He can’t tell if they’re angry or worried or gleeful at the sight of his pain. He doesn’t much care.

 

It’s pulsing now, the pain inside his head, like the drums of some mad tantric ritual. He wonders for a moment through the blinding pain, if this is some new torment devised for him by the wand-wielding old man who placed him here. Has he been cursed? Is this meant to be his punishment for some unknown infraction? It grates on him that he so rarely ever knows the whys of things that happen to him.

But he does not think it is a punishment. It is both illogical and ineffective to punish him without informing  him of what he is being punished for, exactly. Despite all of his flaws, Dumbledore has at least some semblance of logic, and doesn’t seem the type to waste his time on ineffective things. J highly doubts that Dumbledore would inflict potentially debilitating pain upon him unless he had a particular reason to do so. Thus he rules out enemy action, with a passably high degree of certainty.

These thoughts distract him from the pain for but a moment. Its intensity increases past the point he was aware was physically possible, and he feels wetness on his hands. He assumes that his nails have broken the skin. Then something changes, like a cascade of liquid dousing the raging pain. He can feel the sparks of his power burning along the invisible wounds inside his mind, but it isn’t painful. All that’s left now is the stinging memory of pain, which he notices is slowly fading. He’s tired. So very tired, both in mind and body. Which is curious because it has been quite a while since he has last felt exhausted enough to actually be tired. It weighs upon his small body like a thick blanket of lead, and he feels his muscles go limp, his fingers unclenching from their death hold on the now bloody fabric of his blanket. His eyelids are heavy,he allows them to slide shut, enjoying the feel of doing so without pain.

 

His mind is claimed by blankness.

 

When he wakes, it is gradual, as he fights through the thick and cloying blackness that holds him in the realm of sleep. His eyes are crusted closed. He wipes the substance away with his blood-crusted hands, and opens his eyes. He blinks rapidly to clear them, then looks around himself. He’s struck by how clear everything is. His cupboard is dark, as always, but he finds that he can make out every detail of every whorl in the wood grain, and the drops of blood on his blanket stand out in crisp definition. He marvels at his newfound vision for a moment. Even in daylight his vision had never been this perfect. In fact, he had even suspected that he would have had eventually had to rely on glasses later on in life.

He decides that the avoidance of such a fate is a distinctly positive occurrence. He also comes to the conclusion that the pain he experienced in his eyes had been some sort of side effect of the maturation of his powers.

He tilts his head back against his ratty pillow,and peers up at the cobwebbed stairs. It’s fascinating, being able to see in minute detail his spiders spin their delicate webs. It’s almost like a dance, he thinks, as the small creatures scurry from strand to strand, delicate silk trailing from their spinnerets. They also had the potential to be immensely useful, if one knew how to apply their natural attributes. When he had been younger, before pain had become a mere triviality and the minds of lesser beings became his to command, he had suffered their bites.

They were poisonous, of course, just enough to cause him pain, but not enough to cause him significant harm. But that pain had been significant to him, as young as he had been, and still was, really. They showed him that the fact that something wasn’t human or larger than him did not guarantee that it wouldn’t hurt him. He knows that it was not done out of any malicious intent on the spiders part, he has touched their minds and knows that they are far too primitive emotionally speaking to harbor feelings of any kind, negative or otherwise. But that does not change the fact that they hurt him, trivial as it was in comparison to the pain inflicted by Walrus, or even Horse.

But J was a child with perfect recall who had little understanding of the phrase forgive and forget. He was entirely  incapable of the latter and graciously declined to  do the former. So while he was fully capable of understanding the creatures, and why they caused him pain, he was not above exacting his own petty revenge against them. So he made them his slaves, of a sort. They weren’t particularly sentient enough to be actually bothered by the fact that another being held complete and absolute control over their every action (they seemed quite content as long as they could spin their webs, actually), but it still gave him a small amount of satisfaction that he had done something to them. He is well aware that spider silk possessed tensile strength comparable to steel, and has a wide array of uses. So he has his little eight-legged minions (they aren’t really his minions in the truest sense of the word, but he quite simply likes the way the word sounds) spinning yards of gossamer silk for him. He has actually built up quite the collection of spider silk, hidden away in dark corners until he has some use for it. He isn’t quite sure what he intends to do with that much spider silk, but he’s certain that he’ll figure something out. For now, he simply basks in the satisfaction of quite possibly being the only person in the world, or at least Britain, with his own vast hoard of spider-spun silk.

He is broken from his tangential line of thought by the resounding thud of Walrus making his rather ponderous way down the stairs. Dust displaced from the ceiling of the cupboard by the vibrations coats the spider-silk in white, like tiny ash-covered pathways. J narrows his eyes at the crack in the door, which let in a feeble ray of light.

 

The cupboard door is wrenched open with a violence that appears to be characteristic of Walrus’s each and every action. J is honestly surprised that the hinges haven’t broken by now. The red and disgustingly rotund face of Walrus glares down at J, who is struck by a slight moment of regret of his newfound vision because it means that he must view each and every grotesque detail of Walrus’ face; from his wobby double chins, to his twitching whiskers and the rage-induced sweat constantly beading on his greasy forehead. J feels slight nausea at the vision before him, but  continues to stare impassively at the repulsive being before him. Walrus grabs the back of J’s shirt and hauls him up. J is reminded again, just how small he is.

 

“SO YOU’RE FINALLY AWAKE YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING FREAK!” It bellows loudly at him. Walrus seems entirely incapable of speaking at any other volume, J muses as he subtly dodges the spittle flying from Walrus’ nearly frothing mouth.

 

“THOUGHT YOU COULD LAZE AROUND SLEEPING FOR THREE WHOLE DAYS DID YOU BOY? JUST LIKE THE USELESS LITTLE DELINQUENT YOU ARE, YOU--”

 

J tunes out the rest  of Walrus’ mostly redundant rant to consider the fact that he has apparently been asleep for three days. It is rather worrying, considering the fact that he usually requires less than four hours of sleep a week. Whatever transformation that his powers induced must have caused his body to become dangerously exhausted. He finds that troubling, if the only result is his improved vision. While useful, he doesn’t really see how it would warrant three days of unconsciousness. His attention returns to Walrus, as he continues ranting about J’s uselessness and general delinquency.

It is then that J notices the Numbers. They are red, like freshly spilled blood, and float innocuously above Walrus’ head. The number has ten digits, which are counting down as he watches. Above the number is the name Vernon Dursley, which he recalls is what Walrus calls himself. The letters are vibrating, twitching and blurring in and out of focus as if they don’t quite want to spell out that name. J is entranced by the numbers, as they count down, second by second.

 

Then Walrus decides to emphasize one of his points by slamming J’s head into the wall next to the cupboard. J allows himself to fall into a crumpled heap as he feels the blood drip down his scalp.

“Bloody useless.” Walrus mutters to himself, then turns towards the kitchen. He glances back at J. “You’d better not get blood on the carpet, boy.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the end of the day J found that Horse and Swine also had names and Numbers floating above their heads, relentlessly ticking down in front of his eyes. The names floating above their heads also had the same  strange twitching quality that Walrus’ did. It is terribly distracting for J, who finds himself unable to look away from the Numbers as they count down. He has a suspicion as to what exactly they are counting down to.

 

He spends most of the day in the garden. Horse had thrown a small piece of burnt toast at him for his breakfast, then locked him out there with orders to ‘make sure everything was perfect’. He supposes she’ll have some of her friends over later, to boast about her perfect garden to, and gossip about the neighborhood with. He’s usually locked into his cupboard during these meetings, so he’s always close enough to hear everything that they say. It is from these meetings that he learned of the strange woman named Mrs.Figg. The housewives had tittered in amusement as they discussed the strange woman and her fondness of cats. He had known for a while at that point that his assigned watcher had been the woman with cats, who the snakes informed him was a squib, but he had never before had a name to place with the still faceless woman. As far as he could tell the woman was not a terribly attentive watcher, more concerned with her precious cats than monitoring her charge. It was almost insulting to be watched by someone who was so horribly ineffectual. But it was useful to J, in that it would make his eventual escape so much easier. It would probably be months before she even notices that he was gone.

He considers this, as he tends to his petunias. His newfound vision could be useful, but he does not want to use an untested power without understanding all of the ramifications. He will train it later, he thinks, when he is free. He does wonder though, what it means that he can see their names and their Numbers. What does that make him, if he is really able to see the counters of people’s lives?

 

He touches his mind to the energy matrix of the petunias’ collective consciousness, feeling the darkness that roiled within it. It is immensely satisfying to be able to witness the growth of his creation, he thinks as he sprinkles water about their bases. He feels an itch in his eyes for a moment, and rubs at them with the heels of his palms. When he opens his eyes he is almost blinded by a blazing sea of light. Squinting, he makes out a dark web shimmering around the petunias. It pulses, like the heartbeat of a living being, and he finds himself reaching out to touch it. His hand passes through it. It must be their magic, he realizes, then looks around. There is a great barrier of light, brighter than the wispy swirls and eddies of energy that he noticed filled the air. It surrounds his prison like an enormous glass cage/, and for a moment he feels almost like some specimen of rare animal, trapped inside an observation tank. Which he realizes after a moment, he is. He scowls at that.

It is powerful, the barrier, and he wonders if Dumbledore placed it there to keep him in. Curious, he reaches out a miniscule tendril of his power, thin as his spiders’ silk, to touch it. He is struck by an overwhelming flood of sensations, a myriad of positive emotions belonging to the barriers creator. He’s never experienced any of these emotions before, and it frightens him even though he knows with utmost certainty that the barrier would never cause him harm. He is frightened because he knows that the emotions are directed towards him, and he knows that no matter how hard he tries, he will never understand how or why someone could feel such a thing for him. There is an ache in his chest, and he rubs at it with one of his dirt-covered hands. It doesn’t go away. He frowns and stares vacantly at the rippling wall of light. It makes him think of happiness, somehow, even though he can’t really ever remembering experiencing it. He feels a sensation of warmth, almost as if someone’s breath was ghosting across his cheek, and through the connection with the barrier he receives a flash, an image--a memory, or perhaps both of flowing red hair and bright green eyes that blazed.

And then he knows, despite his lack of education on the subject of the stick-wielders’ magic, that this barrier, this ward that’s tied to him is nothing remotely normal. There is something bubbling inside him, an emotion of some sort and he doesn’t know what it is. He reaches out a hand, which he detachedly notices is trembling finely, and places it against the barrier.

He closes his eyes and whispers to it, “Lily.”

He can feel her smile.

 

 


	11. Egress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find a blood ward (which isn't actually a blood ward), a form of teleportation which is not apparition, and an Orphanage called Whammy's.

J prides himself on his intelligence, so on an entirely theoretical level he understands the appeal of religion. He knows that the unknown is something frightening, and that humans, as a race need something to hold on to to stave off the horrible contemplation of death, and use it as a sometimes completely arbitrary guide for their ethics, morality and lifestyles. He supposes that having such a structure on which to build one’s life actions and choices can be a comfortable way of staving off the unknown. It makes sense when looked at in relation to human nature. On an entirely personal level however, the appeal of religion entirely escapes him. He realized early on that no one was going to save him, and began working towards doing so himself. So he sees no purpose in praying to a being of questionable existence to fix whatever is wrong with his life. There is something inherently repugnant to him about the idea of submitting himself  entirely to a being so much more powerful than himself, begging for its grace.  He does not even wish to contemplate the price he would have to pay for such a favor.

Considering his general lack of contemplation on the subject, it is not very surprising that he’s never really given much thought to the subject of souls, which he had considered a primarily religious concern. So he had never really thought he had a reason to think about them before, which was rather foolish of him, now that he thinks about it, considering the fantastical nature of his own powers. He takes a brief moment to berate himself for the oversight.

He really should have considered it before, he thinks again as he stares blankly at the glowing wall of light in front of him. He feels detached, and perhaps a bit cold, but that’s usual for him so he doesn’t understand what this other strange other feeling welling from somewhere deep in his abdomen and the back of his mind is. The lack of information on the subject is disconcerting, so he decides to catalog what he does know.

Firstly, he is protected by a ward of some sort. A ward, which failed to protect him from Walrus or Horse, but was still apparently functional in some other capacity. Secondly, the ward is unique in that as far as he can tell with his limited experience, it is both  permanent, and apparently powered by the soul of Lily Potter née Evans, his mother. Thirdly, he knows that it is powered by the soul of Lily Potter, but not why he is so certain of that fact, or whether this ‘soul’ fits his own conception of souls. And last of all, he knows that he cannot continue stalling. He will have to speak to Lily soon, especially after that first slip of his. He had, of course removed his hand from the wall of light right after addressing it/her, but he can still feel the thin thread of power connecting them like a tether rooted in the core of his power.

He braces himself for the onslaught of sensation and once more raises his finely trembling hand to the glowing barrier.

 

It’s warm, he notes, like the soil in the garden on a particularly sunny summers day. There is no violent onslaught of sensation, but rather an expansion of the connection between himself and the barrier. He finds himself immersed in its warmth, which he finds is not unpleasant. It’s how he imagines a warm bath would feel like. He allows himself a moment of indulgence, and basks in the unfamiliar feeling.

He is not quite sure how to speak to the ward, because surely there is a better way to do so than muttering to himself like a ‘nutter’ as he believes the colloquialism goes. So he sends out tendrils of his consciousness through the path created by his power, until he can feel the warmth of the barrier-spirits’s mind. They connect, like two broken pieces of an object being fit back together. He’s struck by an overwhelming sense of completeness and he doesn’t think he wants it to be any other way.

Then she whispers to him. The whispers aren’t words--they were never words, he realizes--for she is a being who has transcended the need for such things. They’re pure ideas, concepts images and emotions given birth by the interactions of two enormously powerful consciousnesses. It’s beautiful, the flawless translation of thoughts and knowledge from one mind to another, and J cannot help but admire its perfection.

 

Before, he hadn’t known about her. Hadn’t acknowledged her, and the connection was weak. Initiated but not completed. And so he heard her whispers, but hadn’t understood them. But as his mind touches her he knows, her whispers are clear now, a true voice instead of words spoken through thick fog. And she speaks to him; it seems to him an eternity listening and watching and letting the light and the power that is so much more than just Lily anymore embrace him. He is surrounded by a cocoon of brilliant light and consciousness, and he feels safe for the first time he can remember.

She speaks to him of what she was when she was human; the Muggleborn, the Mudblood, the Friend, the Wife, the Mother. The Unspeakable. She tells him of the oaths, the silence and her comrades draped in gray as they drifted like spectres through the halls of a place filled with silence and madness. She shows him a room, filled with rows and rows of glowing orbs, stacked on shelves. Prophecies, she whispers to him, as her ghostly hand caresses his cheek. There’s something hollow about her voice, as she says that, and it’s filled with an emotion that J will probably never understand.

She tells him of her childhood, making little miracles with a dark-haired boy with eyes like ink. His name is Severus, she says, and if she was still human he thinks she would weep. Her life flashes before his eyes, her thoughts through his mind. Watching her life he experiences more emotions vicariously than he himself would probably ever feel in a thousand years. It’s overwhelming, the flood of thoughts and emotions that are so obviously foreign, but he’s resilient and his mind assimilates the knowledge with little delay.

It’s pleasant, the feeling of their minds touching. He knows now that she is the reason that he is never alone, that she is the whispers that accompanied him even in darkness. But he knows that he cannot sit there forever, his hand reaching out to a ward visible only to him. There is very little human left in her, he knows this from watching her memories, for she is but a shadow of the Lily-that-was, she lacks the freedom to act of her own volition.

So he knows that he must ask the important questions.

 

 _You try to keep me safe, don’t you?_ He asks her with images and bursts of color. For what else is a barrier for? There must be something out there, searching for him.

He receives a feeling of agreement.

_What is your purpose? What else can you do?_

_I protect._ She replies with a flood of warmth and the sound of clashing steel. _I am the shield and the weapon. I am the sanctuary that hides. I was but a woman once, human, and weak. The woman I was bound  herself to you, as a sacrifice, a shield. And then I became this, something so much more._

 

_You hide me? From what?_

_The one that killed me. And the ones that serve him. They claim to Eat Death but are simply agents of mindless destruction._

 

_You speak as if he is still alive._

_He ceased to be human long ago. He is alive in the same sense that I am, and as mortal._

 

This was news to J. It would seem that his enemies are everywhere, and a defeated Dark Lord who possibly sought vengeance upon him was the most alarming. He pauses.

 

 _Who left me here? Why was I left here, with these people?_ He needed to know if his suppositions were correct.

 

_Dumbledore left you here, with my sister. He could sense me, but did not recognize me. He thought me a mere blood ward, created from the sacrifice of the Lily-that-was, which would protect you from the Death Eaters, but requires the anchor of a blood relative.  That is the function that the one you call Horse would serve.  Regardless of that, you were meant to live with your Godfather, Sirius Black. He was a friend of your father, and our will states that custody of you would fall to him in the event of our deaths._

_I know of Sirius Black, but he is currently in Azkaban for the murder of a man named Peter Pettigrew. Remus Lupin is also unavailable._

_Peter Pettigrew is a rat in every sense of the word. He betrayed us. If Sirius did kill him, then he had every right to do so._

 

So the man was innocent of betraying the Potters. He would explore the possibilities of that later.

 

_You say that you are not a blood ward, so does that mean that I do not have to live here, with Horse? If I left could you hide me? Even from Dumbledore, and anyone else that might find me?_

 

 _I am  bound to you, in mind and soul. I exist solely for you. I can hide you from anyone, should you wish it._  This was pleasing.

 

_Is there any place that I may go, that no one else knows of? I trust your ability to hide me, but I do not wish to take any chances._

_There is a house, in Winchester. The knowledge of its location died with me. It is approximately forty kilometers from here._

 

_I  were to leave now, at this very moment, how long do you believe it would take for it to be discovered that I am missing?_

 

_Petunia and her family, held no love for me while I was alive, and they hold even less for you. They will not report your disappearance to Dumbledore. Arabella is not the most attentive of people, and she will more likely than not, not notice your disappearance for months, if not years. Dumbledore has placed a tracking spell on you, but It can be removed, and placed on Petunia’s son. He will not notice the difference._

 

It was terribly convenient, thought J to himself.

 

_Why didn’t you remove it from me before?_

 

_All you had to do was ask it of me. I can take no action unless you ask it of me. I exist for you._

 

* * *

 

 

He waited the few days until the snakes returned. He felt that he owed it to them to at least tell them where he was going. The larger snake was ecstatic that he was finally leaving, to the point that J was actually becoming concerned about his spastic twitching. He was quite certain that it wasn’t normal for snakes.  The smaller snake simply ignored his comrade, offered his congratulations and promised to visit J.

He didn’t have any belongings, to speak of, so when the snakes left here merely turned on the spot with the image of the house in Winchester firmly in his mind.

Lily had shown him a form of teleportation used by stick-wielders, which was apparently called apparition. She had given him her own memories of the process, so given the size of his core and the distance to Winchester he should have no problem 'apparating’ there, even without previous experience. According to her memories apparition was akin to being sucked through a particularly violent straw, and arrival was heralded by a sharp ‘crack’.

This was evidently caused by the violent displacement of air particles.

Unlike in Lily’s memories, his arrival at the house in Winchester, which did not currently have a name, was silent and almost instantaneous. His time between places was brief, but he can recall an intense cold and darkness, neither of which were  uncomfortable.

He attributes this to the fact that he is not actually a ‘wizard’. The Other space he passed through seemed unique to his form of teleportation. He’d have to find a better name for it than that.

He checks his connection to Lily, to make sure that he didn’t leave her behind.

 

_Lily? Are you there?_

 

She replies in the affirmative.

 

The house is decently large, with two stories and a basement which Lily tells him is outfitted as a potions laboratory. It stands alone, with a large amount of space on all sides, and a copse of trees blocking the view of the house from the street, as well as a small forest out back. The house is on the outskirts of Winchester, far enough to be decently isolated, but not far enough to be outside of suburbia.

  
The nearest building is apparently an orphanage, called Whammy’s house.


	12. VB137

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> J explores the safe-house in Winchester.

One of the first things that J did upon his arrival at the safe house in Winchester was to take a warm bath. A long, luxurious bath complete with magical bubbles produced by a small bottle which apparently contained some sort of potion. He realizes now why bubble baths were so popular. He cannot deny that they were extremely comfortable,more so than he had imagined, as well as amusing. Watching the bubbles float around him reminded him of the spider and the webs he had them weave in his cupboard. He makes sure to pop every single bubble before exiting the bath, reveling in his freedom to linger.

The bathroom in the safehouse was practically palatial; the result of Lily’s proficiency with Expansion charms and her own fondness for long baths. The bath itself is large, with a diameter of several feet, and is sunken into the floor. He decides that he shall make good use of the room, in the future.

He’s surprised, more so than he should be, by how clean he is when he exits the bath. He’s always assumed that his skin was a tan color, but now he realizes that it was merely a covering of filth that Horse’s infrequent hose-downs of his person did not properly remove. He’s grateful for that now, not because he in any way enjoyed the cold short ‘showers’, but because the filth hid what seems to be more proof of his ‘otherness’. His skin isn’t so much white, or pale as it is translucent; almost as if it was perfectly smooth thin paper, stretched over some pulsing light source. There are silvery veins of light dancing across his skin like the lace of dragonfly wings. He isn’t sure how much of this is apparent to others, or if his own strange Sight was to blame. He knows that it isn’t normal, by any stretch of the imagination, and definitely eye-catching, so he calls forth his power and lets it dance across the surface of his skin, like a thin layer of liquid sunlight, and wills it to hide the pulsing light and the silvery glowing veins. He doesn’t want to take the chance that someone might see.

It’s quite an interesting development, he admits to himself, though he wonders how he failed to notice the silvery veins sooner, especially with his newly sharp vision. However, considering the events of the past few days he supposes he can forgive himself for missing it earlier.

 

* * *

 

 

The bedrooms, he finds are not anywhere near as grand as the bathroom, and are much more functional in design. He has very little need for an actual bed, seeing as he rarely sleeps, but he has always wanted a room of his own, simply because it had been explicitly denied him. It’s more a matter of principle to him, than necessity. There are three of them, all roughly the same size, so he takes the one whose windows looked out onto the back, and the small dark forest there. The floors are wooden, which reminds him of the floor of his cupboard and the bloody stains that marked it, so he drags his small childish fingers across the planks of his bedroom letting his power flow into it and wills them to live. Soon the floors are covered with green, bright leaves and unnaturally soft grass, fragrant and comforting beneath his bare feet. He breathes it in and smiles. In the back of his mind, Lily whispers her approval.

* * *

 

 

It had been nearly a week since J had received the memory transfer from lily, and two since he had made his escape to the House in Winchester. The memories were there, inside his mind which had accepted them as his own, because really they were since Lily was little more than an extension of his own will. She was a part of him and so were her memories. But she had twenty one years of memories, as well as a little over four years of memories of her existence after death, and he had barely four of his own.

Death had stripped the majority of the stronger emotions from the memories, and most of what he had felt at first contact with the ward was muted now,  like a voice calling in thick fog. This was helpful in the assimilation of the memories, however the sheer quantity of information was almost overwhelming, even with a good week to sort through it. The majority of Lily’s episodic memories were of very little use to him, especially those of her early childhood. Those were mostly unsettling, seeing as he experienced the memories from Lily’s perspective. Strangeness aside,they did provide him with something to compare his own childhood experiences with. Which confirmed his suspicions of it being generally uncommon and most definitely not normal. Lily had appeared to have enjoyed her childhood, very much so and was provided all the basic necessities by her caretakers with little trouble on their part, even with the exhibitions of accidental magic she displayed. She had certainly not been ostracized or punished for her powers, though sometimes he thinks her parents had been worried for her. Which he finds is a decidedly strange thing to experience. Lily’s parents had been a kindly couple, elderly and deceptively harmless in the way that some adults were. Horse had appeared harmless as well, as a child, although that might have been the effect of Lily’s own fondness for her.

The early years of Lily’s memories did teach him one important thing; people treat cute children very nicely. Especially little girls. Lily had been an especially beautiful child, with her shining green eyes and bright red hair. Horse had been homely even then, with her spindly arms and pinched face providing a foil for her younger sibling’s cherubic perfection. And it was obvious, even to a child who had experienced a minimal amount of social interaction, that people had treated Lily better because she looked nicer than Horse had. Humans were extremely shallow creatures, he found. It would be a quality that could be exceedingly easy to exploit.

J is quite certain that he fits  the cultural definition of ‘cute’ much better than Swine had, and thus according to this logic he should have been treated better than him. Lily reminds him that her sister’s family were just generally unpleasant people, who more likely than not had serious issues. He can do nothing but agree.

He isn’t really sure where he falls on the hypothetical scale of culturally perceived ‘cuteness’, but as he understands he has a few more years until he has to worry about his overall physical appearance. He is still very young, and he is aware that his size is smaller than the average four year old, which he believes to be  a product of his unique physiology and lack of proper nutrition for the years he was imprisoned. The majority of humans who are unaware of his past, muggles, the stick-wielders called them, would be inclined to treat him nicely on account of his small size alone, which according to what he could piece together from Lily’s memories and his own readings would engender some sort of maternal protectiveness on the part of the majority of adult females, and a protective leniency of sorts among adult males.

Of course, a child of his age and size, alone in public would arouse concern and suspicion, which would draw attention to him and generally be counterproductive. Despite the gap of years between the image disseminated in the Wizarding World and his present appearance, he is still extremely recognizable among the stick-wielders. But if he changed a few basic identifying characteristics, such as gender, hair color or his scar, the probability of discovery by the stick-wielders would be greatly decreased. As far as he is concerned cross-dressing is a viable option for disguise should he ever feel the need to appear in public. Combined with the glamours that Lily had known, he feels confident in his ability to go undetected in public.

While he knows that Lily is incapable of betraying him, J feels that he must prepare for all possibilities if he is to ensure his freedom for the next several years. Because while he is free of his primary captors, he knows that they are just pawns, and the Chessmaster is a man to be feared. The dark shadow of the possibility of recapture haunts the corners of his recently expanded mind. He is powerful, yes, but he lacks experience, he lacks the knowledge of how to use his power. And the people searching for him are powerful as well, with the ability to erase his memories-obliviate, Lily whispers--it would be so easy for them to take him back there, make him forget that he ever left. It frightens him, this possible desecration of his mind, because his mind is the only thing that’s really and legitimately his aside from his power. Lily assures him that her presence would prevent that possibility, she protects his mind from intrusions, as do his powers. But J still fears. It latches on like some terrible creature, black and corrosive like acid burning a deep wound into his mind because there is always some part of him that doubts his own knowledge. There are endless possibilities, and being convinced that he is actually safe from some of them means that he won’t be prepared for them. He refuses to entertain the notion of not being prepared. He sees an image of a scarred man with a electric blue eye spinning in a metal socket across his connection with Lily. Mad-eye the memories in his own mind inform him. He  was also always prepared. He was a soldier, and he survived where others perished. J cannot help but approve of the man.

 

* * *

 

Lily had been seventeen when she graduated from Hogwarts with top NEWT scores, and began working towards her Charms Mastery. She had achieved it in seven months, making her the youngest Charms Mistress in the last century. Her marriage to James had occurred shortly after, which the Horse had been invited  to but did not attend. A few months after the wedding, she had been approached by the Department of Mysteries. She accepted their offer of a job, enticed by the knowledge that would be available to her. James had been told that she was conducting ‘independent research’ funded by a small Charms development company.

There were a few disturbing blank spots in her memories of the years she spent researching in the DoM. Lily assumed that they were side-effects of the many experiments that she took part in, as it was standard procedure for the researchers to be obliviated after the particularly sensitive ones. Apparently remembering them would have been detrimental to the Unspeakables’ continued sanity, which would have greatly decreased their overall usefulness to the DoM. J found this suspicious, but at the moment there was little he could do about it.

The house was apparently a  remnant from her time as an Unspeakable. Working as one apparently fostered a healthy sense of secrecy and paranoia. She had set it up as a safehouse, should the worst come to pass. Lily had warded it herself, using wardstones that she helped develop in the DoM, as part of a larger experimental project. She never had the chance to use it, as James didn’t know about it and had been convinced that the house in Godric’s Hollow would be safe enough under the fidelius. He had been wrong, obviously.

 

* * *

 

 

The safe house, which he has decided to refer to as VB137, was hidden from both ‘muggle’ and ‘magical’ eyes. The wards Lily had developed worked as a sort of derivative of the fidelius, and were the only ones currently in use, seeing as they were still experimental. When Lily died, J had become the secret keeper, and the knowledge remained hidden inside his mind until Lily had told him of the safe house, allowing him to access the information. The house had been bought the muggle way, with British pounds from a bank account Lily had opened under a fake identity. It was new enough that no extensive records existed, and those that did exist had been strategically ‘misplaced’. The land it was built on was of very little interest to anyone but the most eccentric wildlife enthusiast, and even to them the wards dulled their interest, subtly deflecting anyone’s notice of the house or its grounds. There were no records of it in the magical world, and the wards placed around it prevented the Ministry from detecting anything other than the natural ambient magic. The wards were for all intents and purposes invisible to them.

The kitchen was stocked with enough food to last an adult human for several years; the cupboards had expansion charms placed on them, and the food was placed under a stasis ward which would theoretically preserve it for centuries. Lily had forgone the purchase of a house elf since she personally found the practice of keeping sentient beings as slaves barbaric. J thought this was a prudent decision seeing as a House Elf could create a potential breach of security. Part of him was also capable of empathizing with the beings, who from what he had seen in Lily’s memories, were an extraordinarily powerful race who had been forced into subjugation through trickery. No one was certain of the exact circumstances of the first covenant between the races, but it was implied that it had began as a more equal relationship which had been twisted beyond all recognition by the human stick-wielders. It reminded him much of his own circumstances.

 

J had little reason to leave the safety of VB137’s wards, as he had everything he needed to survive there. So for the next few weeks he stays within the wards, which extended a good way into the forest behind the safe house. He spends much of his time simply reveling in the intoxicating feeling of freedom. Having spent much of his life confined in a small house and its small backyard, the area that the wards encompassed is practically  gigantic to his own senses. He enjoyed exploring the woods, which were apparently home to some of the lesser magical beings such as bowtruckles and small faeries, which had some sort of strange fascination with him, and were constantly stealing strands of his hair.

They seemed to be weaving something out of it, but he could sense no malicious intent from the creatures, so he decided to leave them to it. They liked him, after all, and he saw no purpose in changing that. They also reminded him a bit of the mice and the voles he had entertained himself with at the Dursleys, and restrains the urge to pet them. He leaves out small bowls of honey, and milk for the creatures, which he tells himself is because he simply likes to watch them. He wonders if faeries had a language, and if he could learn it. He’s sure he could, and it could be useful. Such small creatures would make wonderful spies, more so than bugs or small mammals since they were significantly more intelligent. He pops a strawberry in his mouth and hums thoughtfully as he watches the little  beings flit around him on iridescent wings.

The constant hunger which had plagued him during his imprisonment was somewhat alleviated by the highly nutritious food that the health-conscious Lily had stocked the safe house with. He finds the fresh fruits such as strawberries and apples to be especially delicious; there was something wonderfully satisfying about biting into the tender red flesh. There was no chemical aftertaste or cloying thickness left in his mouth like the Dursley’s food would have. He ate almost constantly, snacking on a  handful of cut fruit or berries as he wandered the grounds. Had he actually been the human child that he appeared to be, the food would have sufficed. But he wasn’t, and the hunger still lingered like the smell of smoke. It was a hunger that could not be assuaged by physical means, and ran deeper. He had lived with it for almost the entirety of his life, so it was a simple matter to ignore it. But even as it caused him no great physical discomfort, the hunger reminded him that he was not adequately acquainted with his needs as a nonhuman being. Lily had no knowledge of beings similar to himself, and she had had the knowledge of the Department of Mysteries at her disposal. J considers the possibility that the snakes had been correct when they had told him he might be entirely unique. After all, neither one of his parent had any creature blood, so whatever he was had to have resulted from the combination of the ritual Lily had used the night the Speaker had attacked and the actions of the Speaker himself.

There was always the possibility, however that he shared some traits with some of the more esoteric beings. It was quite common in nature, from what he had read. Convergent evolution, he believed it was called.

Lily had received high scores in her Care of Magical Creatures class, but she was by no means an expert on the subject. Which meant that it was a good thing that she had stocked VB137 with a small reference library. Seeing as Magical Creatures and Beings were not her areas of specialization, there were only three reference books on the subjects, a rather weighty tome titled Creatures Strange and Wondrous ,  a leather notebook titled The Ilk of Shine and Shadows and a smaller book called Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find them, which was apparently one of Lily’s old textbooks. He wasted no time in reading them, and found several quite interesting. Despite the snakes dislike for cats, he found himself interested in purchasing a kneazle for himself. Their ability to sense untrustworthy people had potential to be useful to him.  None of the creatures in the books seemed similar to him at all, although several of the beings mentioned sustained themselves by consuming blood, energy, or even souls. He suspected that he would eventually need to consume something similar. He found nothing similar to the silvery veins in his skin, either.

 

The sight that he had gained, which seemed similar to a rare ability Lily called ‘Mage Sight’, had stabilized and over the course of a few weeks he grew used to the constant eddies of power that swirled within his vision. It did not seem that he could deactivate it, so he went about discovering its uses. The energy he saw seemed to be a combination of something which equated to ‘life energy’, and the ambient energy, or magic, that came from the Earth itself. He had not made contact with any humans yet, so he was unable to test whether or not he could see the names of all of them, as well as their lifespan. He was quite curious if the names he saw were the names that they self-identified as or if they were their ‘legal’ names, which would be honestly quite confusing for him. Names were internalized by people, who gave them powers by doing so. He was operating under the assumption that his eyes showed him some sort of quality inherent to humans, but seeing as he didn’t see names or lifespans for animals he supposed it was possible that there was some sort of system set up to regulate and record the names and lifespans of humans. The ramifications of that were somewhat worrying. He decides that he shall have to be especially careful while experimenting with the Numbers and Names.

He wanders around the safe house, watching the flows and eddies of energy. They were bright and thin which reminded him of spider-silk. (He had brought his hoard of silk with him, but left the spiders. Their purpose was better served left to torment the Dursleys.) He has decided that he likes the way the house smells, like wood and old books. It was a welcome change from the sharp smell of chemical cleaner, sweat and rage  that saturated the Dursley’s. He is struck by a brief pang of regret that he did take the chance to lace the Dursleys’ food with those chemicals that they loved so much. All those wonderful chemicals, most were poisonous, and some lethal in sufficient quantities. It would have been a painful death. But no, that would have been a horribly mundane way to punish the creatures; he’s got so many wonderful ideas he has been wanting to try after all. The deep festering darkness inside his mind quivers with glee, at the thought.

The wards around VB137 were nowhere near as bright to his sight as Lily was, which was meant that they were considerably weaker than she was. Their form was fascinating, however, and he studies the intricately laced patterns of energy that form them. He can feel the intent that Lily had woven into them, and he finds the precision and the complexity beautiful. Elegant, efficient, effective. It was a work of art, and he wishes he were more capable of appreciating it.

 

* * *

 

 

He tosses the marbles he holds in his hand, letting their gentle clinks lull his mind into a meditative state. It’s nice, to let his mind rest like this, but he finds that he has had enough of rest, and now was rapidly approaching the dangerous territory of boredom. He had never really had this problem at the Dursley’s, as he was always kept alert and watching by the sharp tang of paranoia that always crept at the edges of his mind. He felt it less here, it was muted as if someone had tried to smother it to death with a pillow, but failed, and it clung stubbornly to its metaphorical existence within his mind.

He decides that regardless of his other skills, the one thing that he absolutely no skill in is human relations. He had lived in a cupboard for three years with minimal human contact. That in no way prepared him for normal human contact, which was a problem because failure to blend in due to a lack of social skills would draw attention to him. It would be suspicious, and he would very much like to avoid that. Because he knows that he cannot stay in the safety of VB137’s wards. He’d drive himself mad. If he wasn’t already, which he would rather not think about.

He decides that it would be advantageous to observe human children of his same approximate age, and briefly recalls that there is an orphanage nearby. It should suit his needs.

 

* * *

 

 

Whammy’s is an imposing structure, all old stone and steel. There is an iron gate at the front, black and sharp and distinctly unfriendly. There are security cameras there as well, high quality, which suggested it was a well-funded orphanage. It is muggle, of course, with only the barest of wisps of energy dancing around the building. The Forest separates their property from his, so he simply walks through it to reach the back of Whammy’s. There are children there, some are playing a game involving a ball of some sort. He is unfamiliar with it, and simply watches from the shadows he has hidden himself in.

He fiddles a bit with the hem of the long shirt he is wearing, plucking at the thread as he watches the red ball bounce back and forth between the children. He isn’t wearing a dress, but his hair is long enough to pass as a girl, and he has glamoured his eyes and his skin. He considers it sufficient for a disguise. The youngest of the children appear to be about his age, but for the most part they seem uninteresting. They all look to be normal humans, no real energy to speak of. Some of the older children seem stressed, with dark circles under their eyes.  A good number of them are reading books; thick tomes and what appear  to be textbooks. He thinks he could attempt to talk with them, it doesn’t seem too terribly difficult seeing as most of them weren’t doing much of it. But they were boring, and he didn’t really want to. So he scans the sea of glowing red names and numbers again, studying the interactions between children. Some were playing some sort of team-based game he supposed was meant to foster a feeling of camaraderie among the  children. A smaller group of children were chasing a single child, who was grinning maniacally. He thinks it is a game of tag, which he had heard of but did not really understand the point of. How was having multiple people chase you fun? Or perhaps it was some sort of speed and evasion training, cleverly disguised as a mere game? He thinks that that must surely be the case.

Then he notices a disturbance among the eddies of energy. There are dark wisps of energy floating from the other side of the yard, where a small figure is crouched beneath a tree. It is a boy, with dark hair and prominent bags under his eyes. J estimates that he is four or five years older than himself. He is hunched over a jar, which was filled with some sort of jam which he was scooping out with his fingers. He had very long fingers, pale and spidery like that of a corpse. The dark energy seemed to radiate from his eyes, which glowed the same red color as the Numbers that floated above his head. The tendrils seemed to caress the boy, clinging and possessive as they danced around and across his too-pale skin.

J flicks his eyes up, above the numbers. Beyond Birthday.

What a terribly strange name to have. J decided that he liked him.


	13. Interlude: The Root of True Hatred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petunia really did love her sister. More than anyone else.
> 
> Also, the Dursley’s begin to receive their comeuppance. After all, those flowers aren’t just for looks.

Petunia Dursley was not a stupid woman, nor a particularly unobservant one. So when her freak of a nephew went missing, she noticed. Oh, she noticed. Her husband, great lout that he was, didn’t. He had never been the most intelligent of men, but he was easily guided and provided for her and her son, so he served his purpose. Had she been more romantically inclined, she might even say she loved him. But Petunia was a bitter woman, and any capacity she had for emotions such as love or pity had long since dried up. She fancied that she loved her son, but her affection for the boy was more out of vanity than anything else, for she believed that any child she produced must surely be better than her freak of a nephew. Part of her knew she was deluding herself, but she did not really care.

She had been a bitter child, always eclipsed by the shining brilliance of her beautiful younger sister, and her bitterness had only increased when it was revealed that Lily was even more special. She was magic, another thing which set Lily apart and above while Petunia had to stand to the side and watch in jealousy. She had loved Lily as a child, all the jealousy in the world wouldn’t have changed that then. But things kept happening that took Lily away from her. First it was that boy, that horrible disgusting skinny boy with the hooked nose and knobby knees and bruises shaped like fingers running up and down his arms. He lived down the street from them and befriended Lily, entranced by her beauty like all that had come before him.

Lily had become fond of him very quickly for some reason, which Petunia now knew to be magic.  They spent all their time together, always going off to some hideaway to whisper secret things to each other while Petunia was once again left alone and forgotten. Lily was her little sister; she should have spent time with Petunia, after all she loved her most of all. But no, she lavished that disgusting urchin with her precious time. He didn’t deserve to bask in her brilliance. Everyone always wanted to take her sister away, but he was the worst of them. Severus Snape was the very first person that Petunia ever truly hated. She doesn’t think she’ll ever hate anyone more.

She knows that her hatred of the man was justified, now. She had known it years before, when one summer Lily returned from that boarding school that was just too far away and no longer spoke of secret things with the dark haired boy. And she had known it when her sister had gone into hiding from some sort of dark cult leader. She just knew that the pathetic piece of trash had been the reason for her sister’s sudden seclusion. It was always him, she knew because for all his pathetic chasing of her sister (it was obvious he wanted Lily) he couldn’t hide the darkness from her. She had her own, after all. She had watched his fall from grace with a malicious glee, because he had finally been denied the relationship with her sister that she had always wanted but would never have.

No one had deserved Lily, her beautiful, brilliant Lily. So when she opened her door one morning to see a dark haired child wrapped in a blanket and a basket on her doorstep she knew that her sister was dead. Because that cursed child had her sister’s eyes (they had always been beautiful, like emeralds) large and wide in the child’s still round face. She hates the child almost as much as she hates that freak Snape. Because he’s here, in front of her, a physical reminder that her sister is dead,  and she has to look at her sister’s eyes in a face that’s all wrong. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. He doesn’t deserve anything of Lily. So she lies to him. Told him his parents were drunks and layabouts. He doesn’t deserve to even hear about her sister. Those were the parents he deserved, after all he had to be the reason her sister was dead. Why else would that crazy cult man chase her sister with such madness? It was the boy, she believes this fervently even if she doesn’t know the real reason why. He was practically a murderer, he killed her sister but she couldn’t kill him. Death was too kind a punishment for something like him. The letter the old freak had left seemed to imply the boy would serve as some sort of protection against the cult, which was enough to convince Vernon to let her keep the boy. So she locks him away him the cupboard so she won’t have to look at Lily’s eyes, and she whispers poisonous tales of magic into her husband’s ears. He takes care of the rest, and every time she hears Vernon punish the freak she can’t help but feel satisfaction at a job well done.

He’d always drip though, the boy. That filthy blood of his staining the wooden floor of the cupboard, staining her house with Lily’s blood. How dare he, she thinks as she scrubs at the stains she knows will never come out. And he watches her with those eyes. Those horrible, beautiful eyes of his. She’ll never be clean, she knows. She was never as clean or bright as Lily, and the years have only stained her; twisted her like a handkerchief wrung between bloody hands. But she was satisfied to have brought suffering to the instrument of her sister’s destruction. Maybe she made him bitter, as bitter as herself. It would have been the ultimate revenge on the world for letting her sister die, for keeping her from her.

But he’s gone now. She doesn’t know where, and she doesn’t particularly care. She knows she’s left her mark on him, even though it was Vernon who drew his blood. He had always been a strange child, inhumanly sharp and quiet. Her mark is just as deep and ingrained as those qualities, and she knows that it will follow him for the rest of his life. He’ll probably assume its part of himself, think its normal for him. But she’ll have affected him. She feels a vague sense of triumph, at the thought.

There’s no real reason for her to inform Dumbledore of the boy’s escape. It is not her problem if he can’t keep track of his own freaks. There’s little reason for the cultists to hurt her family, and even if they did she doesn’t know if she’d really care. She’s had her vengeance, after all.

“Vernon?” She calls, “Dinner’s ready.”

 

* * *

 

It has been a few cycles of light and dark since their _mastergodFatherCreator_ had left. He had taken the other bright light with him. They had spoken with the light sometimes, in the limited way that beings with as simple a consciousness as themselves could. They had liked the light. It was warm and reminded them of the sun, and had allowed them to drink of its essence to better serve their creator. Their creator was far away, they knew. But they could feel him through their connection, they were still subject to his will, and they were glad for it; for what purpose did they have without their god?

He was gone now, but they were strong. They were part of him, an extension of his will.  Their roots were deep and their minds were strong and saturated with the dark intent he had feed them. If they had tastebuds the thoughts would have tasted like blood. Their creator was gone. But the Horse creature that he had given them memories of was not. They could feel its energy inside the human dwelling. It was weak and dull compared to their creators, and they hated it. It had to be punished for her transgressions against their master.

They had been mere flowers once, before their master saw fit to give them true life. They are so much more now, though, proper servants for their creator. Their collective consciousness shivers in pleasure at serving their god.

The Horse creature had been given their name, their creator had told them. Naming it after them had some sort of significance in human society. They weren’t quite sure what it was, but they knew that humans put their names on things that they owned. So they supposed that made it theirs. It is only proper to claim what is theirs, they decide.

 

The Horse creature likes to look at them, and show them off to the other female humans who smell like fake flowers. So it is easy enough to send out tendrils of their mental matrix and ensnare her mind when she admires them alone. It starts with her bending down to inhale their fragrance; they have made if so she could not resist. She is ensnared from that moment and it is so terribly easy to dominate her mind, as weak as it was from near madness and festering bitterness. Her darkness is easy to merge with their own, consumed and devoured in mere seconds. If their master had been there he would have agreed that it was a fitting revenge against the woman, for her to become a part of his creations.

Linked as she is to them, she no longer exists as an autonomous being; her body is theirs to use, a marionette to be shared among the hive mind. It is easy enough to fake her personality, her routine and actions are all theirs to peruse among her memories. It fascinates them, to have a body of flesh, and they take great pleasure in dragging sharp knives across her skin and experiencing physical pain for the first time. It is addicting, and they smile darkly with her face.

No one ever notices Petunia Dursleys death, as her body continues living.

No one ever notices Petunia.

 

  
  
  
  
  



	14. Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> J meets another letter.

Beyond Birthday was not a normal child. He never was and never would be. This was something that he knew instinctively, regardless of the fact that he never actually gave any thought to the matter. It was really of no matter to him. He was the way he was, and that was the end of it as far as he was concerned. What was interesting to him, however, was how everyone else failed so spectacularly to be anything like him. The other children were of course genii, just as himself, but there was some sort of inherent, humanity, for lack of a better word, which created a divide between them.  It was spectacularly disappointing to him that there was no one really like him. They failed, and they didn’t even know it. He possesses an utterly juvenile sense of humour, which he is well aware of, so he snickers at the thought.

 

He is crouched in the shade of a tree, away from the other children. It wasn’t a very nice day, by any means, far too hot and unreasonably sunny, and he wouldn’t even be outside if he hadn’t found it too much effort to protest against the staff. The staff at Whammy’s had somehow got the notion in their heads that participation in outdoor activities was absolutely vital to the children’s development. It was complete rubbish, if you asked him. He thinks the staff must have watched some child-rearing show or another, and gotten some sort of ideas from it. For such supposedly intelligent people they were prone to believing the most ludicrous of things. They had even attempted to take away his strawberry jam once. His strawberry jam. They had said something about it not fulfilling his nutritional requirements. Filthy heathens, the lot of them. L survived on cake and sugar tea, and no one ever said anything about taking them away from him. Except perhaps Whammy, and Beyond had a sneaking suspicion that the old man ate some of it himself. He knows he himself would, seeing as some of the strawberry shortcakes seemed tolerable enough.

But back to the caretakers’ idiocy. Beyond was a genius. He was perfectly capable of ensuring that his own nutritional needs were met, and it was an insult to his intelligence for anyone to believe otherwise.

He dug his fingers into his jar of strawberry jam and pulled out a delicious glob of the sweet red substance. Holding it up to his face he inspected it as the reflected light made it glow, and watched as the thick red substance dripped down his fingers like the gory remains of some freshly killed creature. Bringing it closer, he inhales the delicious strawberry scent and drags his tongue slowly up his fingers as he watches the other children with half-lidded eyes.

 

* * *

 

The first thing he noticed about the figure was that there was something missing. It was impossible to ignore once he had noticed it. There were no blood red letters floating above its head. He had never encountered a person who did not have both their name and Numbers floating in that glaring red above them. He cannot even remember a time when he could not see them. So it is somewhat surprising to find someone who had neither. But he knows that there are always exceptions to any rule, no matter how frustrating it may seem to him personally. No one else seemed to have noticed it, which really wasn’t very surprising to him. Most other people were pathetically unobservant, after all, and the figure was doing a very good job of not drawing attention to itself.

He knows that this person is different; he can sense no divide separating their natures as it does with the others. He’s never been able to see his own Name and Numbers, not in the mirror or pictures. He had hypothesized that it was not that he did not have any, but rather that he could not simply see his own, perhaps a quirk of his own powers. But seeing this curious individual who also lacked a Name or Numbers of their own, he decides that perhaps they are the same. Two of a kind, perhaps.

He blinks, and the figure is gone. He darts his eyes around the yard, searching for the figure as he digs out another glob of jam and all but shoves it in his mouth. He isn’t panicking. He is most definitely not panicking. The figure was real. He was not hallucinating. He is sure of it. So the figure had some sort of ability to either move instantaneously or become invisible; or perhaps both. It seems far-fetched, of course, but he himself is not really in a position to doubt the possibility of such things considering his own unique ability. It is nonetheless distressing that he has lost sight of such an intriguing individual. He would very much like to learn more about whatever they were.

 

* * *

 

He almost bites his fingers when he feels the warm breath on the back of his neck. There was no crackle of leaves or sounds of soft footfalls to announce the approach of the presence, and Beyond is put on edge because he has always prided himself on his situational awareness. He can’t help the way his body stiffens for a small moment, as feels the warm air ghost across the hairs on the  nape of his neck.

It’s exciting, how close the figure is, so he discards his momentary discomfort and turns his head to look at the strange being. Up close, he’s no closer to determining the gender of the being, so he discards that endeavor for the moment. They’re small, he thinks as he takes in their form, approximately the size of an average two or three year old, but the too thin limbs and slightly concave appearance of their cheeks suggests probable long-term malnutrition. Considering that would cause stunted growth he estimates that the being before him is around four or five years of age, if it is in fact human, or its growth patterns follow that of a human. It certainly appears human, if he disregards the lack of glowing red characters above its head. Despite its strangeness, the being appears startlingly average. Almost too average perhaps, as he can’t quite seem to fix their features in his mind. He can tell their hair is dark though, and long--almost to their knees. It is messy, as if they hadn’t bothered to brush it after washing it, and he can tell that their skin is some variation of caucasian pale. Their clothing seems to fit them somewhat awkwardly, as if they haven’t yet figured out how proper clothing works yet. All in all, they fit in perfectly with what Beyond has observed of the children at Whammy’s House. But they are not a part of Whammy’s House, Beyond is quite certain of this because he regularly hacks the files of all the orphans and there hadn’t been any indications of a newcomer.

 

The figure is staring at him with an intensity which would be unnerving to him if he had not already made the acquaintance of the equally strange L. So he returns their stare with his own, which he has practiced enough to know is disconcerting, and notes that he is also unable to pinpoint the exact color of their eyes. The staring match continues for exactly three minutes and sixteen point five seconds before the stranger slowly blinks and tilts their head to the side in an inquisitive manner. (Beyond feels a small amount of glee at winning the staring competition.) A small pink tongue darts out from their mouth to lick what Beyond thinks are equally pink lips (or perhaps they are pale, or plump, or thin, it’s terribly hard to tell when his eyes can’t quite seem to agree on what they are seeing), and the being opens their mouth to speak to him in a voice that he can only describe as raspy. It is as if they haven’t drunk water in ages or simply aren’t used to talking. Beyond is inclined to believe that it is a combination of both.

“I find you interesting, Mr. Birthday,” is what they say, and Beyond wonders where they found his name because he knows he’s deleted it from his own file. He waits for them to continue, but after a period of silence he realises that they are unlikely to be forthcoming. They have him at a disadvantage, seeing as he has no information on them but they obviously at least know his surname.He shows none of his discomfort outwardly.

 

“I’m glad that I interest you,” he replies drily, and seeing as he really has very little to lose he asks, “You obviously know my name. Social conventions decree that you should give me yours. ”

 

They blink, and squint their bright eyes in what Beyond thinks is confused contemplation.

“Do they? How terribly curious…,” They turn their attention to Beyond and ask in a way that is clearly more of a demand, “Is this type of expected reciprocity common to these types of social conventions then?” Beyond cannot help but admire their voice, which somehow manages to be simultaneously melodic and raspy. It defies logic, to have a voice like that.

 

“Yes. Usually. It makes social interactions easier when both parties are on somewhat of an equal footing information-wise.” The stranger nods to their self, and resumes staring at Beyond. He assumes that they are rather socially stunted, which is rather common among the orphans at Whammy’s. They seem to be trying to learn though...

 

“Social conventions are generally better learnt through immersion,” Beyond offers.

“Is that so?”

Beyond notices that they have maintained their same detached expression. They seem to consider something for a moment, then looks back at  Beyond. Another long silence follows. Annoyance fills Beyond, as this conversation is beginning to seem rather pointless.

He narrows his eyes almost imperceptibly at the stranger, grits his teeth and asks, “Why can’t I see your Name? Or your Numbers? What are you?”

He’s frustrated enough by this enigma that he doesn’t even bother with the way having to actually ask for an answer tears at his pride.

 

The stranger grins. It is a sharp grin, as if it were blades and not teeth being revealed by parted lips.

 

“You are not the only one with powers, Beyond Birthday,” Here they flick their eyes up to the space above his head, where he imagines they see floating red digits. “Mine hides me from prying eyes, among other things.” He isn’t sure what to feel now that he has confirmation that they have the same eyes, but he does know that this person will be interesting. They look back into Beyond’s eyes, and he thinks he sees a flash of acid green in theirs.

“As to what I am, well, I assure you that I was born quite human.”

 

He finds something strange about that statement, but refrains from mentioning it. He knows it was made on purpose, almost like a challenge. He doesn’t intend on losing this time, so he’ll wait.

 

“So, tell me, how long have you been able to see human’s names?” The figure asks.

 

“You don’t seem to quite grasp the concept of reciprocity. Or is your memory so terrible that you cannot recall what I told you moments ago?”

 

“I do not have a Name to give you. Besides, I answered your questions. I consider that to be sufficient reciprocation. So, answer me; how long have you been able to see them?”

 

“I cannot recall a time when I have been unable to.”

 

“I see.” The way the figure says this makes Beyond think that there is something about his answer that they find significant. What exactly that is, Beyond can only guess.

 

Beyond blinks and the figure is gone. He knows they will be back.

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, the figure returns. He isn’t certain, but it appears as if they are wearing the exact same clothes as the first time they met. There are grass stains on the knees of their trousers, and what seems to be cobwebs clinging to the sleeves of their blouse. He’s sitting under the same tree, and eating from his third jar of jam of the day. The figure crouches beside him, mimicking his pose. Their features as just as imperceptible as before.

 

“The children here,” The figure begins, “Are given letters. Why?”

 

Beyond wonders at the fact that the figure hasn’t yet discovered greetings. That or they are simply very rude. He decides that it isn’t really an issue.

 

“This place isn’t so much an orphanage as a factory for geniuses,” Beyond smiles darkly, and scoffs. “We’re supposed to be replacements, you see. Just in case something happens to the original, L.”

 

“So they pit us against each other in a bid to create the next L for them to use as a tool. And it works, even if we know that we are being used. Because we all want to know that we are the best, and here they hand us the chance to prove it. It’s dangerous, to be in the running, so they give us letters, and fake name to protect our  identity. After all, it wouldn’t do for something to happen to us before we’ve made ourselves useful.”

He’s squeezed his hand into a tight fist, and the jam in his hand drips out from between his fingers like the morbid evidence of some brutal murder. He licks up the trails of sticky red as regards the small figure in front of him.

“Not like it’s very much use against you, or me, in any case.”

The figure concedes to that point with a tilt of their head and asks,

“What is L, exactly, that you are all being trained to replace him?”

 

“L is the first one that Whammy found, apparently. He’s what inspired the man to scour all of his orphanages and bring the very best here. You could call him a hunter, I suppose. His prey are criminals, his hunts are his cases. ”

 

“You do not like him.”

 

Beyond shrugs and shoves another glob of jam in his mouth.

* * *

 

 

After that the stranger comes to visit Beyond every few days, mostly staying for only a few minutes. Sometimes they don’t even talk, just crouching next to each other in silence and listening to each other breathe. The child seems to like to study the other children, their games and their interactions. Beyond doesn’t know when their tentative bond formed by their similarities became something closer to friendship, but he’s happy with it so he doesn’t question it.

He’s gathered from their few short conversations that the child is also an orphan, lives within walking distance of the orphanage, and has a great love of small animals, especially the furry kind.

 

He hasn’t, however, gotten any closer to getting the strange child to tell him their name in the weeks since they’ve met, so he decides that if they want to be anonymous then he’ll just have to call them A. He thinks it’s only fitting, if they’re going to be his friend, that he claims them in such a way.  A and B. Yes, he likes the way that sounds very much.

  
  
  



	15. Creation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> J ponders his creation.

J had not been lying when he had told the boy that he had been born human. For while he himself had no recollection of the first eighteen months of his life,  Lily remembered his birth and the subsequent months quite well. It was rather strange, remembering his birth from Lily’s perspective, but the knowledge that it was not actually his own memories afforded him some distance from the images of her distended gut and the squalling purple and red creature that emerged from between her legs. He knew that the creature was in fact a past version of himself, but he found it nonetheless somewhat disgusting. As small and fragile as he was now, he had been even more so then, with eyes swollen unopened slits and pudgy, weak arms that insisted on flailing aimlessly. He is glad, as much as he is capable of being glad, that he does not remember the weakness and terror that inhabiting such a pathetically weak body would have surely caused.

Lily had cradled his wrinkled, splotchy body to her sweaty bare chest, and smiled at him as she felt the faint spark of his very human magic from within the chest of his infant body. He doesn’t understand her desire to hold such a revolting creature in her arms, nor her fondness of it, and seeing as death has stripped all accompanying emotion from her memories, he is quite certain that he never will. He supposes that some of the emotional attachment could stem from the fact that she essentially created him, carried his parasitic being within her own body for nine months as it slowly gained the ability to sustain itself outside of her womb. Yes, he can see how such an investment of personal effort in his creation could foster such an attachment. As his effective ‘creator’ (for what else could Lily in truth be called) she likely felt some sort of responsibility towards him. A bond between creator and creation, which he understands quite well. He himself is rather fond of his own creations, especially the flowers which he had put so much effort into. He had of course created them with a specific purpose in mind, which they had fulfilled spectacularly, but he supposes that the basic idea is the same.

 

From the memories of the-Lily-that-was he knows that he was born human. A weak and squalling human infant. And he had remained so, as far as he could ascertain until  the night of October 31, 1981. The date of both his progenitors deaths. Or murders, really. (Perhaps he should look into revenge…)

The reason for his metamorphosis from human into something other lay in Lily’s memories. Or to be exact, what she was missing from them. It was of course possible that some of her remaining memories had been altered, as Lily had never been the most proficient in the Mind Arts, despite being passably skilled in them. But it was beyond the skill of any but a master Occlumens to distinguish between true memories and subtly altered ones. So at the moment it was beyond his ability to determine if that was indeed the case. What he did know was that whatever Lily had been working on for the Unspeakables had been the key to his current state of existence. Some of her memories of the night of her own death were missing as well, large swaths of blankness that he knew held the answers that he sought. The memories of her actual moment of death remained, the looming image of a pale figure with eyes a glowing red, inhumanly slit and then a strangely high voice and green light that haunted J’s dreams in his early childhood.

It was true, that the Killing curse was painless. Lily had barely noticed the transition between life and the limbo she was now trapped in. The part of her that was an Unspeakable couldn’t help but note the fascinating sensation of being parted from her body. She had wondered at the time, if that was how ghosts felt at the moment of their creation.

 

Lily had been a remarkably brilliant witch. He supposes that’s why she hadn’t run; she understood that doing so would only prolong the inevitable. She stood instead, and fought, like the gryffindor she had been in life. He still isn’t sure how to feel about that, so he does not ponder over long on it.

 

In her memories, he also witnesses the death of the man he might’ve called father, in another world. He watches as fear passes across the man’s  face, followed by something he thinks might be determination, listens to the muffled shouted as the memory of the man fights off the looming figure that J knows to be the Speaker. He watches as the man dies. He feels very little attachment to the man, despite witnessing more than seven years worth of Lily’s interactions with him. He himself will never personally know James  Potter, and it serves no purpose to dwell on futures that will never be.  

 

* * *

 

 

Beyond Birthday’s existence is peculiar, to say the least. J is quite certain that Beyond, and all the other orphans who live at Whammy’s are non-magical and completely human. They lacked the glow that all magical beings had within his sight. Their numbers were also perfectly ordinary for non-magical humans.  At first, Beyond’s ability to see the names and numbers had made J think that perhaps the two of them were similar beings. But Beyond possessed an eidetic memory, much like himself, and could not remember a time that he had not been able to see the Names and Numbers.

While not being very skilled in Occlumency, J had quickly become proficient at his approximation of  Legilimency. While not exactly like the Legilimency performed by Wizards and Witches, J could capably sift through the thoughts and memories of humans without detection. Really, the core principles of both techniques were quite similar. So he could, in fact, definitively say that Beyond was nothing like him, based on what he had seen in his memories. The Dark energy that pulsed around his head like the grasping tentacles of some horrible being seemed to be the source of Beyond’s paranormal ocular ability. It appeared to be some sort of parasitic energy construct, which was not damaging enough to render Beyond nonfunctional, but different enough for it to be obvious that it was not really a part of the boy. The energy did not seem to be overly affecting his cognitive capabilities; as his intelligence was entirely natural, but it did seem to be leaching off of what J had decided to term the boy’s ‘life-energy’, for lack of a more properly descriptive term.

Beyond’s life-energy was unique, not in composition but in consistency. The life-energy of non-magical humans generally floated around their bodies in vaporous streams of wispy light, drifting off in streams behind them, eventually losing vibrancy and finally disintegrating altogether upon the person’s death. The life energy of the few magical humans and beings that he had seen since gaining his own ability was generally more cohesive. There was a sort of order to the brilliant wisps of light, resembling shining webs of spider silk almost constrained entirely to the magical being’s physical body. Even upon the being's death the web of light that represented their life energy did not disintegrate, but faded in a most peculiar way that seemed more like phasing out of the current plane of existence than ceasing to exist. Beyond’s life energy is neither loosely held-together like that of a non-magical being, nor completely contained within his physical body in the way that a magical being’s life energy would be. It is rather a combination of the two, which J finds fascinating. Sometimes he renders himself invisible entirely, and just sits next to Beyond and watches him think. The boy truly has such a complex mind, full of twists and weaves and swirling masses of thought that exist just beyond the horizon of true madness.

 

On the days that he does not spend sitting next to Beyond, mostly in silence, and watching the glowing red digits, he explores, and he watches. Whammy’s House, he finds is a peculiar institution, not in that he himself finds it strange but in that it is singularly unique. It strikes him as something a government would arrange, a training institution for brilliant children, still young enough to be molded to their own purposes. The founder, Quilish Whammy, billionaire, inventor, war-veteran. He’s interesting, powerful, and potentially useful. That is a possibility that he will have to explore much later.

 

The other boy that Beyond had mentioned, L, was slightly more difficult to find than the other children J occasionally followed. At thirteen, the boy is not the oldest orphan at the institution, but he is certainly the most active. He is often gone, accompanied by the founder, on what J knows to be cases. He apparently liked to be close to the action.

Because of the boy’s frequent absences from the orphanage, it takes three days of wandering the halls of the institution for J to encounter him. He finds L is in his room, which unlike the other children he has to himself. It is large, with empty white walls illuminated only by the light of the many screens that L has set up. It is the middle of the day, but the sunlight is hidden behind thick blackout curtains. J pays little attention to the streams of data constantly updating on each screen, and approaches the thin figure crouched in front of them. He moves slowly, carefully, in order to avoid the many trays and delicate containers filled to the brim with delicacies and sweets. L is steadily eating nonpareils from a heaping platter sitting next to him on a low table. L bites each sweet in half, almost viciously, like an animal ripping flesh from felled prey.

Does this figure also feel the gnawing hunger, gripping at edges of his mind? Perhaps he does, but J knows that the child is human, regardless of his gragoyle-like posture and unblinking black eyes, and so his hunger is less than his.

 

 


End file.
